


Here Comes the Sun

by MissScorp



Series: Tale of Two Dopes [1]
Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Angst, Coping, Dealing with the complexity of Malcolm Bright, Destructive Behaviors, Drama, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Family, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Harvard Years, Humor, Love, Malcolm Bright Needs a Hug, Malcolm Bright Whump, Malcolm being Malcolm, Malcolm has one friend in his life outside of Gil and Jackie, Pre-Series, hints of romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-19
Updated: 2020-08-07
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:42:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 36
Words: 27,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21863938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissScorp/pseuds/MissScorp
Summary: Malcolm's world changed with the word hello.Pre-series. Explores the Harvard years. Whump, drama, friendship, humor, and dealing with the complexity that is Malcolm Bright.
Relationships: Gil Arroyo/Jackie Arroyo, Malcolm Bright/Sorcha Corbin (Original Female Character)
Series: Tale of Two Dopes [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1928365
Comments: 136
Kudos: 130





	1. Chapter 1

He sat in the _fight-or-flight_ seat as she liked to call it. The one closest to the door. To freedom if one needed it. It was the seat she typically chose for that very reason. _Ah, a kindred spirit_, she thought as she pushed the strap of her bag higher up on her shoulder.

Nobody else sat in the row with him despite the room being filled almost to capacity. _Probably 'cause of how he's sitting_, she mused as she stepped out of the way of a couple of girls. Thin shoulders hunched, head down, and a quick glance showed his hands — slender hands with long, graceful fingers, she realized with a little jolt — visibly trembling despite his every attempt to hide them.

Her heart welled with sympathy and understanding.

She hated the first day of classes, too.

"Everyone find a seat," a gray-haired man in thick spectacles and a brown tweed jacket said from the podium at the front of the room. "We'll be starting in a few moments."

She didn't stop to think. Didn't bother to wonder at the wiseness of her decision. She simply plopped down in the seat next to him and cheerfully said, "Hi."

That jolt came again at the vulnerability and uncertainty that warred for dominance when eyes she couldn't decide were more green or blue lifted to hers. His face — and it was a good one — was partially hidden by a shock of hair a lighter shade of brown than her own. His nose was straight and narrow, his face a bit thin. She suspected the hollows in his cheeks tended to deepen when his anxiety got out of control. Meals were something she tended to skip when her own anxiety got bad.

A shy, hesitant smile curved his lips before he uttered a soft, "Hello."

That warm, velvety voice sent heat flooding through her. She busied herself by getting out a notepad and pen from her bag. Otherwise, she feared she'd melt into a puddle at his feet. _Get yourself together, girl. He's not the first attractive guy you've met. _

"I hate the first day of class." She darted a look at him. "Don't you?"

"Yes."

"I got lost twice on my way here." It was really six times but she didn't want to make herself seem like that much of an airhead. "Finally asked a maintenance worker where I was supposed to go."

"I walked the campus yesterday to make sure I knew where everything was."

"Ah, see, that was smart." She pulled her textbook out and set it on top of the notepad. "I should have done that but was too busy moving into my apartment."

"You live off campus?"

"With my brother's girlfriend, actually. Parental condition for allowing me to come here." She playfully rolled her eyes. "You'd think they'd be okay with having me at Harvard since it's a lot closer than Afghanistan but no."

"She goes here, too?"

"Boston University, actually." She smiled. "She's studying to become a doctor."

"My mother wanted me to become a doctor." A shadow passed through his eyes but was gone before she had a chance to wonder at it. "I chose a different path."

"Seems we have something in common," she lightly joked. "Mine wanted me to go into law."

His smile brought out a hint of dimples. "Don't care for law?"

She wrinkled her nose. "No."

"Okay, everyone." The gray-haired man flipped on an overhead projector. "Let's get started."

"I'm Sorcha, by the way," she whispered as she opened her notebook. "Sorcha Corbin."

"Malcolm," he quietly replied. "Malcolm Bright."


	2. Chapter 2

They discovered they had two more classes together that week.

"Guess I can't get lost, anymore," Sorcha joked as they walked around the small quad during their ten minute break from research methods. "Not so long as I follow you."

"What happens if I get lost?"

She sent him a teasing grin.

"Ah, well, guess we'll be lost together, huh?"

A shadow passed across Malcolm's face.

"You might not like being lost with me."

"Oh, I beg to disagree." She stepped aside so a man on a bike could pass. "I think getting lost together could be a ton of fun."

"You'd end up regretting it, trust me."

"Why?"

He didn't answer. Instead, he asked, "Are you getting your degree in psychology?"

_Deflecting_? she wondered. _Or aversion_? She leaned towards a little of both. They had only known each other a few days. Nowhere near the sharing secrets stage. And Malcolm Bright had secrets, she could tell.

Deep, dark, painful ones.

The kind her dad would say some sort of traumatic event caused. Whatever happened likely caused his anxiety issue, as well as him to become stunted socially.

Sorcha wasn't troubled by Malcolm’s awkwardness. She thought his shy, hesitant nature endearing. As was his kindness, honesty, and sweet gentleness.

"I'm double majoring in English and Psychology, actually." She followed him back inside their classroom. "What about you?"

"Psychology," he said. "Maybe study forensics later. Criminal justice."

"You want to work in law enforcement?"

"The FBI, actually."

That perked Sorcha's interest.

"Really? Doing what?"

Malcolm managed to surprise her at long last when he said, "Profiling." He sat in his seat. "I want to profile serial killers. Try to understand them and fix them."

Joining the FBI wasn't on the list of things she imagined someone like him wanting to do. Researcher, therapist, laboratory assistant. Those were things she pictured him doing. Learning he wanted to profile serial killers? Well, that just made him all the more interesting.

"Huh, guess you're in luck then." She sat back in her own seat. "Cause my dad works for the FBI. The BAU, actually."

"Your dad's a profiler?" His eyes brightened with interest. "He's worked on cases with serial killers?"

"Mhm." She sent him a teasing grin. "And Mom absolutely forbid me from following in his footsteps for that very reason. Said one profiler in the family is all she can handle."

Those dimples winked and set Sorcha's heart fluttering. She did her best to ignore her growing interest in him. Not because she wouldn't date a guy like Malcolm but because she swore she'd avoid getting into any relationships until her senior year.

More than Malcolm’s looks intrigued her, though. There was an aura of mystery surrounding him. A wounded, raw vulnerability in his eyes made her want to protect him. To shield him from the ugliness in this world. Someone had hurt him and badly. Who it was, she didn't know. She'd like to find out, though.

_So, I can hurt them for what they did to him._

"So," he said as their professor walked back into the room with a cup of coffee from the vendor outside the building. "You're following in your dad's footsteps."

"Well, it's either become a profiler like him or a professional singer. And I'd sooner fly to the moon on a paper plate than get on a stage and sing."

"Stage fright?"

"Puked during a spelling bee."

"Wow."

"Totally broke Mom's heart," she said with a soft laugh. "Made Dad proud."

One eyebrow lifted. "Puking made your dad proud?"

"Well, I puked _on_ the principal."

That surprised a laugh out of him.

The sound was rusty, but there.

Sorcha decided then and there she was going to make him laugh every chance she got.


	3. Chapter 3

"Will you sit down?" Sorcha huffed playfully. "Swear you're a ball of energy today."

"I can't sit down." Malcolm jumped up to pace around the couch. "I'm nervous about what I got on that midterm in psychopathy."

"You got an A." Sorcha grabbed a pillow and tossed it at him. "And you know it."

"I don't know about an A..." Malcolm raked his fingers through his hair and let out a heavy sigh. "Hardly anyone gets an A in that class."

"You will." Her confidence made him smile. _Well, grimace_, she corrected as he continued pacing. "Mal, you knew that stuff cold when I quizzed you earlier. There's no way you didn't get an A"

"The questions on the test were much harder than the ones you asked."

"So?" She closed her laptop and set it beside her. "You still knew that stuff cold."

"Yeah, but—"

"No," she said softly, but firmly. "You got an A. I know you did." She pat the couch. "Now, come sit back down. We gotta decide which of these articles we're using for our proposal in cognitive development. The bibliography is due on Monday."

"Let's go for a walk," he suggested instead. "Clear our heads before we start going through all those articles."

"It's after midnight," she pointed out. "And snowing."

"It is?" He glanced at the window, brow furrowed. "I hadn't noticed it started snowing again." Nerves raced across his face. Nerves and an obscenely large amount of paranoia. "I should get home before it gets worse."

"You don't have to go."

She didn't want him to go was the truth. Sorcha wasn't a coward by any means. She could handle being alone in the apartment. She often was since Mandy tended to work late at the hospital for extra money. She just didn't feel like being alone that night.

"No." Malcolm snatched up his jacket and dashed for the door. "I need to get home. I..."

"Mal."

"No, I—"

"Your shoes?"

"Shoes?" He stopped and stared down at his stockinged feet. "Where are my shoes?"

His bewilderment caused her to smile.

"By your backpack."

"Oh." He sheepishly crept over to pick them up. "Thanks."

Sorcha didn't like the look on his face. It was so grim, so set. Like someone about to go off to war. _Maybe that's what it feels like to him_, she thought as he sat to pull on his shoes. _Like he's about to fight a faceless enemy. _

That enemy being his own mind.

Malcolm surprised her by opening up to her a few weeks back, confessing to a soupçon of disorders that he took a bunch of different medications for. _That's it_, she realized as he grabbed his backpack and stood. _He doesn't have his medication with him and is worried he won't be able to get to it before it's time for his next dose_.

"Mal, slow down," she said as he walked to the door. "I can call Mandy and see if she can get an emergency supply of your medication from the hospital."

"I can be home in ten minutes." He didn't turn to look at her. Concerning Sorcha more than she was already. "It's not that far to walk."

"It is in a snow storm." She got up and went to him. "Please. Let me call Mandy. She won't mind. I promise."

"No." He shook his head. "I—"

"...don't want to be alone tonight."

That got him to look at her. The wealth of uncertainty, shame, fear, and doubt in his eyes tore holes in her heart. She desperately wanted to hold him in her arms and tell him everything was gonna be okay but she knew he'd balk. _Like he did the last time_.

"What?"

It came out as hardly a whisper.

"I don't want to be alone tonight." She slowly reached for his hand. It was like ice. "Please, stay."

"Sorch..."

"We'll get it worked out." She squeezed his fingers gently. "Trust me."

Some of his tension melted. "I do trust you," he said quietly. "That's why I don't want to hurt you."

"Hurt me?" She covered their entwined hands with her free one. "You could never hurt me."

"I could." He looked down and away. "When I'm asleep."

A light flipped on inside Sorcha.

"The night terrors."

She should have suspected that was his biggest worry from everything he told her about them.

"Yes." He looked so miserable it broke her heart. "That's why I should go. I don't—"

"Stop." She issued the command softly, gently. "Mal... if I can't handle my friend having extreme panic attacks or night terrors? Well, then, I don't belong in the FBI. Because the things that we'll deal with there will be as bad as what you're going through. Sometimes worse. There's just one huge difference between you and them."

"What?"

"They're predators." She squeezed his quaking fingers. "You're not."

"How can you be sure?" He lifted red-rimmed eyes to hers. "I'm my father's son."

"No," she refuted. "You're Malcolm Bright. A sweet, sensitive, and goofy guy who wouldn't let me smash a spider."

Her joke teased out a small smile.

"They're living things, too, Sorch."

"Not when they crawl on my foot they're not."


	4. Chapter 4

"Malcolm Whitly." He spoke in the same flat tone he used when he told her about his disorders and the medications he took for them. "My real name is Malcolm Whitly."

"You changed it to Bright before applying to Harvard."

"Yes."

"Why?"

"So people wouldn't know who I am."

"You mean a Whitly?" Sorcha cocked her head to the side. "Or that your father is the Surgeon?"

A faint hint of bitterness crept across his pale face. "Both."

That Malcolm's father was Martin Whitly filled in a lot of blanks. Explained why he kept saying he was like his father. She already suspected his father of being the root cause of Malcolm's problems. Until he confessed who he was, she assumed his father either hurt him in some way and was in prison for it or that he had a psychotic break and got institutionalized for it.

Malcolm wore the signs of victim as well as he did an Armani suit. Shame trembled in Malcolm's bowed shoulders. In the hands he clenched between his knees. His fear was a tangible force between them. An invisible wall that protected him, shielded him, and comforted him.

_What did Martin Whitly do to him_?

That was what she'd like to know. Sorcha had her suspicions. She didn't ask, though. The rest of the story needed to come from Malcolm. _And it will_, she realized as she sat on the floor in front of him. _With time and patience. Trust and compassion. Friendship and acceptance_.

What was clear to her was that his admission came with a heavy price. One she suspected he paid because he felt guilty about what his father did.

Malcolm also expected her to turn on him. Condemn him for what his father did. To stop being his friend because who in their right mind was friends with the son of a serial killer? _Well,_ Sorcha decided as she brushed her hair behind her ears. _Guess I'll just disabuse him of that notion right now_.

"So, am I supposed to run away now? Stop being your friend because your father is a serial killer?"

He mumbled, "Most people do once they find out my father is the Surgeon," without raising his head.

"Well," she said smartly. "They weren't your friends to begin with then." She waited until Malcolm lifted his eyes to hers. A decades worth of pain shimmered in those green-blue depths. Sliced her heart into a billion pieces. She had to swallow around the lump that formed in her throat before she could add, "Real friends stick by you no matter what. They see you for you and not for who your family is."

Naked vulnerability crawled onto his face. Sorcha desperately wanted to put her arms around Malcolm, to stroke his hair and back, to tell him everything was alright.

That it'd be okay.

_He'd_ be okay.

She refrained, though. Touching him now would likely cause him to shatter into a thousand pieces. _No_, she decided as Malcolm released a shuddering breath that hurt to hear, _what he needs most at the moment is comfort, support, and understanding. Someone to care about him. To give him a safe place while he struggles to put himself back together_.

All things in Sorcha's power to give.

"Why are you?" Desperate confusion swam across his face. "That's what I don't understand."

"Because I see you," she said simply. "And I like you."

_A bit more than either of us is ready to talk about_, she added silently. Sorcha started to realize her feelings for Malcolm went a bit deeper than simple friendship a few days ago. Now wasn't the time for pursuing anything beyond friendship with him, though. Malcolm wasn't in a good place for a relationship and she was still trying to get over her last disastrous foray into romantic waters.

_He needs a friend more than a girlfriend, anyway_, she decided as he released another shuddering breath. Besides, there was no reason they couldn't keep things as they were between them.

They were comfortable with each other. Had a good time together. _Well_, she amended with a faint grimace, _we do when not discussing heavy stuff like this_. They enjoyed studying together. Shared a number of interests. Discovered a few ones.

"I'm my father's son." Embarrassed color filled Malcolm's cheeks. "We're the same. He's always telling me that."

"You're not the same." Her sharp tone caused Malcolm to flinch and withdraw further into himself. She ached for it, for him. "You're not you're father, Mal," she said gently. "You're you. Wonderfully, amazing you."

"I'm not that special."

She dared to touch him then. Just a brush of her fingers across the back of his hand. A subtle offer of comfort and support if he wanted it. He latched onto her hand like a drowning man.

"I thought you were special when I saw you sitting in the flight-or-fight seat and looking so adorably forlorn that I just knew I had to sit next to you."

"The flight-or-fight seat?" His brow furrowed. "What're you talking about?"

"You always sit in the seat closest to the exit." She stroked her thumb across his knuckles. "The flight-or-fight seat as I call it because it gives you the option to escape if you need it."

His face brightened when he realized what she meant.

"I don't sit by the door in statistics," he pointed out with a small smile. "I'm at the middle table."

"That's because Professor Aker can't remember our names unless we sit alphabetically."

"Guess it's a good thing your name is after mine."

"Well, that hyphenated part of my name needed to come in handy for something," she joked. "Even if most teachers don't allow me to use it."

"You're lucky you can use either name when you want."

"You're Malcolm Bright." She smiled at him. "And that's all that matters."

His face softened. "Thank you." He slid down to sit with his back against the couch. "For everything."

"Hey." She scooted over beside him. "What're friends for?"


	5. Chapter 5

Sorcha sprang from the light doze she drifted into when a sound, like that of a wounded animal, pierced the quiet. She blinked her eyes open and took a moment to gather her thoughts by peering around the room. She couldn't make out much in the dim, predawn light.

_Am I hearing things_? She wondered, brow furrowing. _Did I dream I heard a wounded animal_?

The sound came again and Sorcha realized it wasn't an animal making it, but Malcolm. _Oh no_, she thought, heart thudding in her chest. _He's having a night terror_.

Just as he feared.

Sorcha had nightmares growing up. Some pretty severe ones, she recalled as she eased over beside him. Hers were nothing like what she assumed Malcolm experienced, though.

"No…" he whimpered, body twisting and jerking on the floor. As if he was trying to avoid someone or something attempting to hurt him. "No…"

She couldn't stand it. She couldn't stand him being attacked like this. Not when it was by an attacker she couldn't see. That she couldn't fight. That she couldn't protect him from. _What happened_? she silently asked as he let out another low moan and swung his arm. _Who hurt you_?

Not that he'd tell her if she asked. They might have grown a lot closer in the last twelve hours but they weren't at a point where he felt comfortable discussing what caused his night terrors.

_Give him time_, she thought as he started to thrash around. _That'd be what Dad would suggest. Just be patient. Give him time. Build up his confidence. Earn his trust_.

And most of all… be his friend.

"Mal." She set a hand on his arm. Prepared herself for whatever would happen once he pulled himself from the clutches of the demons holding him in their dark clutches. "Mal, wake up."

Malcolm shot into an upright position, gasping out a panicked, "no!" and flinging his arms up to cover his face. _Shielding it_, Sorcha realized with a pang, _from either what he witnessed or endured_.

Both filled her with a helpless fury.

"Mal," she called again. "It's okay. You're okay. Nobody's going to hurt you."

_I won't let anything or anyone hurt you. _

He surprised her when he twisted, wrapping himself around her, clinging to her like moss on a tree. His breath shuddered out of him, and the sound of it hurt Sorcha more than his trembling.

"It's okay," she crooned, running her hand up and down his back in a slow, soothing circle. "You're okay. It was just a bad dream."

Only it wasn't. It was more than a dream. Something happened to Malcolm. Something bad. A niggling suspicion formed in the pit of her stomach about _what_ and _who._

For now, though, she focused on the man shivering in her arms.

When she had nightmares as a kid, her dad would sit with her, arms wrapped securely around her, and sing to her. It always made her feel better. _He_made her feel better. Safe. Protected. _Loved_.

Things Malcolm desperately needed.

Sorcha shifted, and settled Malcolm more comfortably against her, but he issued a strangled protest and tightened his hold on her.

"Sh, sh." She sifted her fingers through his hair. "I'm not going anywhere. I'm staying right here. I promise."

He relaxed but said nothing. Not that he needed to say a word. The way his body quaked told her all she needed to know. Sorcha drew in a breath and released it slowly to help steady her nerves.

Then she began to sing a song she treasured because of the man who sang it to her. Malcolm was worth sharing this personal treasure, she told herself. This bit of herself.

_Here comes the sun…_

_Here comes the sun…_

_And I say. _

_And I say._

_It's all right_


	6. Chapter 6

"Maybe I'm meant to be alone."

Sorcha stopped pressing pie dough into the pan to look at him. "I don't believe that."

"Of course, you don't." Malcolm removed a tray of cookies from the oven and looked for a place to set it. "You believe there's nothing wrong with me."

"Because there's nothing wrong with you." She indicated to set the tray on top of the microwave with a nod. "You're no different from anyone else with a medical condition."

"They're not all broken."

"Neither are you." She pointed to another tray of cookies. "Those need to go in next, please."

Malcolm obliged her before saying, "I can't be fixed, Sorch."

"You have to work at it, Mal."

He sent her a wry look from over his shoulder. "I see a therapist."

"For your prescriptions."

He closed the oven door and turned to her. "I see Gabrielle when I need to see her."

She didn't comment on the fact that he saw a therapist who specialized in childhood traumas. Way she saw it? Gabrielle Le Deux understood Malcolm and his particular needs. That made her suitable to help him.

"I know you see her when you need too." She offered him the wooden spoon. "And I know it's not easy to work through traumas as deep as yours." He looked at the spoon and then her, one brow arched in silent question. Sorcha blinked. "Don't tell me you've never licked a wooden spoon after your mom made pudding?"

"My mom didn't make pudding."

"She didn't make pudding?" Sorcha couldn't imagine such a thing. "Never?"

"No." He set the oven mitts on the counter. "She didn't make pudding."

"Didn't make whipped cream, either, I'm guessing?"

"No."

"What a horrible miscarriage of justice." Sorcha placed a hand to her chest and fanned herself with her free hand. Acting the fool to replace the sadness haunting those beautiful eyes. "Never having the pleasure of tasting homemade chocolate pudding or freshly whipped cream off a spoon or beater. Why, who ever heard of denying a child such a thing?"

Her antics teased out a smile. As she hoped they would.

"We had a cook who prepared most of our meals."

"And they didn't like you in the kitchen?"

He shook his head. "No."

Sorcha suspected that Malcolm didn't go into the kitchen all that much after his father was arrested. She learned he tended to go without meals when his anxiety got the better of him. That's why she took to keeping things in her backpack that she knew he'd eat without fussing too much.

"You poor, deprived boy." She offered the spoon again. "We must fix this sad disparity so you can pass the rite of passage."

One of Malcolm's brows lifted. "Licking pudding off a spoon is a rite of passage?"

"Oh, absolutely." Her lips curved as a plethora of memories flashed through her mind. "Sean and I used to fight over who got to lick the spoons."

"Why didn't you just share?"

"'Cause he was a big ole meanie is why." She chuckled at the horrified look on his face. "Relax, Mal. I'm joking."

"He wasn't mean to you?"

"Sean was like any older sibling plagued with having a younger sister," she said with a grin. "Well, until someone picked on me. Then he walloped the daylights out of them."

"Ainsley is the one who tends to wallop the daylights out of people."

Sorcha found herself liking Malcolm's younger sister more and more. _Not that Malcolm isn't capable of defending himself_, she thought as she placed the spoon back in the bowl. _It's more he chooses not too_. She suspected his reasoning for that was wrapped up in his father. Choosing not to use violence because of the violent acts Martin Whitly committed.

"Oh, I can take care of myself," she assured him. "It's just more fun watching Sean beat the ever-loving shit out of someone."

"Why?"

"Cause he's Yoda when he's not riled and Obi-Wan Kenobi when he is."

Malcolm shook his head. "You and Star Wars references."

"Not Batman for a change."

"That's true." Malcolm looked around the kitchen. "How many more desserts are you going to make?"

"Two more pies and another batch of cookies."

"Isn't that too much?"

Sorcha imagined six batches of cookies and four pies seemed like a lot to someone who didn't have as large a family as she did.

"Not in my family."

"You have that large a family?"

"You'll find out how large a family I have on Christmas Eve."

"Aren't you going home with Mandy?"

"Yes, I am." She steeled herself for the argument her next words would provoke. "But I kinda let slip to Mom that you were planning on staying here since your mother and sister are going to Vail for Christmas."

"So?"

"Well, she sorta ordered me and Mandy to bring you home with us."

"Oh, no…" Sorcha didn't like the panicked look that came over his face. It reminded her of a caged, frightened animal. "No no no. There's no way I'm going home with you for Christmas."

"You, uh, gotta."

"Why?"

"Cause Mom will totally come up here and get you if you don't." Before full panic could set in, she took his hand in her own. "It'll be okay, Mal. I promise."

"What about…?"

Malcolm didn't finish his question. He didn't need too. Sorcha knew exactly what he was asking about.

"We'll get through it if you have one." She squeezed his fingers. "Just like we have the other times you've had one."

Malcolmslowly relaxed.

Well, relaxed for _him_, anyway.


	7. Chapter 7

"Thought I'd find you out here," Ian Corbin said as he stepped out onto the back porch. "Things got a bit overwhelming in there, did they?"

Malcolm Bright — well, he was really Malcolm Whitly, but Ian wasn't going to call the young man out on it — lifted eyes slightly dazed and confused to his. He chuckled as he took a seat beside him on the porch step.

"Yeah, we're a bit of a rowdy bunch when we get together, I admit."

"Your family is nothing like mine, Mr. Corbin."

"Just Ian is fine." He offered him a mug of hot cider. "Here, this will warm your insides."

Malcolm took it with hands that trembled from more than the cold. "Thank you."

"Don't mention it." They enjoyed a few minutes of silence before Ian said, "My girl certainly has taken a shine to you." He leaned his head back to stare up at the smooth chocolate sky. "Makes me happy to see she's willing to trust someone after what her last boyfriend did to her."

"Oh, but I'm-"

"Not her boyfriend?" Ian sent Malcolm an easy smile. "No, I know you're not." _Not officially, anyway_. Again, Ian didn't call him out. It wasn't his place and he didn't want to spoil what the two had. "You're still good for her, though. And she," he added with a knowing look, "is good for you."

"Sorcha isn't like anyone I've met." Malcom stared pensively into his mug of cider. "She doesn't see me like others do. She doesn't treat me as others have."

"Because my girl sees people for who they are and treats them as she thinks they deserve to be treated." He didn't bother to mask the pride in his voice. "Gets it from me."

"She doesn't think I'm broken."

Ian's heart stung at the resignation in those words. It was clear as day that Malcolm believed he couldn't be helped_._ That he couldn't heal from what his father did to him and his family. _Well_, Ian decided as he shifted on the stair to face Malcolm_, I can help him with that. _

"You're not broken, Malcolm."

"I can't be fixed."

"Is that what you believe or what Martin Whitly has convinced you is true?"

Fear and shock caused Malcolm to rear back. His sudden movement caused cider to slosh over the rim of his mug and splash across the front of his pristine white dress shirt.

"Dammit." He set the mug aside and brushed at the liquid with a frustrated sigh. "Mother will be upset if I've ruined another shirt."

"Give it to Erin," Ian told him. "She'll get the stains out for you."

"I'll send it to the cleaners when Sorcha and I get back to campus."

"Just give it to Erin." Ian sent him an easy smile. "She'll happily take care of it."

"I don't want her to go to any trouble," Malcolm said. "Not for me."

"She's not going to mind. In fact, she'll be thrilled."

Uncertainty brimmed in the eyes that turned to him.

"Why?"

"Because she likes feeling needed."

"She is needed, though." Malcolm reached for the mug he set aside earlier. "She's their mother."

"Who raised two independent and capable children."

A small smile graced Malcolm's lips.

"With your help."

"She claims I taught them all their bad habits." He chuckled softly. "She could be right."

"I'm like my father." The words throbbed with shame, fear, and hurt. Cost him dearly to say, too, Ian suspected. "He says we're the same."

"Those are the words of a manipulator." Anger rippled through Ian but he swallowed them back. Anger wasn't what Malcolm Bright needed at that moment. No, the truth was what he was after and it was the one thing that Ian could give him. "Look, son, I know what the theory is about the children of serial killers. I don't believe it. I don't believe people are born broken." He set a hand on his shoulder. Squeezed gently. "Someone has to break us."

And in his opinion, Malcolm Bright wasn't broken.

Not yet.


	8. Chapter 8

"This is not how we do things usually in my family," Sorcha said as she plopped down on the bed beside Malcolm. "But I can't wait until tomorrow for you to open one of your presents."

"If it's not how you do things normally..." A frown formed between his eyes. "Then why are you having me open one now?"

"Because I want you to open it now, silly."

Malcolm rolled his eyes. "Yes, but shouldn't we wait until tomorrow morning to open it with the rest of your family?"

"You have another gift you can open then." She set a long box wrapped in green and blue wrapping paper in his lap. "One that won't make my family more curious than they already are about things."

One of Malcolm's brows lifted as he looked at the box in his lap. "What things are they curious about?"

"Between us."

"We're friends." A flash of vulnerability crossed his face. "At least, I hope we are."

That doubt hurt. Made her angry. Had her curling her fingers into her palms to keep her from saying something she'd regret. It was hard not to rip into the man she felt responsible for this.

Malcolm deserved things like friendship and love but didn't reach out for them because he feared being rejected because of the problems his father's choices caused him.

"We're friends," she assured him. "Never doubt that." She sent him a wry look. "Try telling that to my aunts, though."

"They don't think we're friends?"

"Oh, they think we're friends, all right." She picked at a loose thread in the bedspread. "They just happen to also think you're ideal husband material."

He blinked. "They what?"

"Think you're ideal husband material."

"You're not serious." Malcolm clearly expected her to burst out laughing and say it was all a joke. That her aunts didn't really think him ideal husband material. When she didn't, he frowned. "They don't really think that I'm—"

"—ideal husband material?" She nodded. "Oh, they're very serious about that. In fact, they wanted to call Father Malrooney and get him to officiate a ceremony tomorrow morning."

His face paled. "Did they?"

She chuckled and shook her head.

"Dad put a stop to it before they did."

Malcolm breathed out a sigh of relief. "I can't believe they'd go that far."

"Oh, they'd do it in a heartbeat."

"Why?"

"Well, I disappointed them by going to college instead of getting married and having babies."

One brow winged up. "Marriage is that important to them?"

"Most of the women in our family were either married or engaged by the time they were eighteen and mothers by twenty."

"And you're not."

"To their extreme shame and frustration."

"Well," he muttered, fingering the blue bow she painstakingly tied. "They don't want you marrying somebody like me."

"And why not?"

"I'm a crackpot for one."

She scoffed at that. Just as she always did when he made such remarks.

"We have had more than a few crackpots in our family I'll have you know."

"They weren't wildly dependent on benzos or have a serial killer for a father."

"No, but we did have quite a few radicals and blackout drunks."

"Sorch." His small, despondent sigh cut thin pieces out of her heart. "I know you don't believe me when I say this..."

"Then don't."

"I'm broken," he said quietly. "I can't be fixed."

"I don't agree with that and I never will."

A small smile curved his lips. "You're being unnecessarily stubborn about this."

"Yup." She patted the box with her hand. "Now, open your present."

He conceded with a nod.

"Green and blue wrapping paper," he joked as he slowly removed the ribbon. "You're definitely consistent in your color choices."

"You need to wear more blues and greens."

"I have lots of color choices in my clothing, thank you."

"One red Harvard sweatshirt doesn't count as lots of colors."

"It's enough."

It was an argument they had been having since she got a look at his wardrobe and noticed the majority of it was somber colors like black, gray, and white.

"You'd bring out the color in your eyes if you wore more blues, greens, and purples."

Not that he needed help in making those wonderfully beautiful eyes of his more devastating. Sorcha could admit, at least to herself, how much she loved Malcolm's eyes. She found herself getting lost in them on more than one occasion lately.

Even her dreams were about his eyes.

Eyes that were sometimes blue or sometimes green depending on his moods.

Not that she'd tell him that.

"I don't need to draw any more attention to myself." He tore the paper at the corners.

"I'm an acquired taste as it is."

A faint hint of bitterness coated those words. Her heart ached for him. She desperately wished she could take away his feeling of not belonging simply because he didn't fit the mold of what society considered normal.

"You're like that Irish whiskey Dad drinks," she said. "Something to be savored and enjoyed."

"Most people would say to pour me out."

Sorcha harrumphed.

"Just open your present, funny guy."

Malcolm slowly removed the wrapping paper. _It's so him_, she realized as she hid a smile. To slowly unwrap a present. To let the anticipation of what it was build. To savor the moment of discovery.

She was the exact opposite. She tore into presents with wild abandon, too eager to see what she got to even consider savoring the moment. Malcolm pulled off the top of the box and set it aside before peeling back the tissue paper. His small gasp was all she needed to know her gift was a wisely chosen one.

"You said you were starting a collection of swords," she said as he lifted the sword from the box to look at it. "I thought this would make a nice edition to it."

"This is a World War II samurai sword." The awe and delight in Malcolm's voice, on his face sent warmth spreading through her. He lifted those magnetic eyes to hers. "You bought this for me?"

"No, I bought it for Bugs Bunny."

Malcolm sighed. "You and sarcasm."

"'Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit'," she said. "'But it is the highest form of intelligence'."

"Thank you, Miss Wilde."

"You're welcome."


	9. Chapter 9

"My demons don't sleep."

"Dad would say they need exorcising."

"He doesn't know what my demons are." Malcolm picked at the bandage wrapped around his left hand. "Nobody does."

Sorcha studied him as she roasted a marshmallow over a candle. A dark cloud seemed to have surrounded Malcolm since Christmas. He had been edgy, restless, and more withdrawn than usual since he returned from wherever it was he went before coming back to school.

Malcolm idled at moody. She learned that the first week of knowing him. Gentle teasing and exaggerated playfulness usually lifted him out of whatever funk he had sunk into. This form of moodiness wasn't as easy for her to deal with.

He could be extremely destructive when he got like this.

It went beyond not eating or sleeping. Malcolm caused himself physical pain during these bouts. Twice in the last week he scratched his hands raw. The other day she had to bandage his wrist after he cut himself on a piece of glass.

He isolated himself after that. Sorcha was wise enough to know it was because of his feelings of shame and humiliation. She let him get away with it, knowing he needed his space, and that she couldn't hover over him like a protective hen.

Last night had been the worst episode, though. Mandy called her after midnight to tell her he was in the ER, beat all to hell, and with a mild concussion. When she arrived and asked what happened, he replied that he'd been in a fight. Sorcha quickly deduced that Malcolm's _been in a fight_ meant he let someone use him as a punching bag.

It worried her enough that she contemplated calling her dad for help. Malcolm needed someone with more knowledge and experience than she had to help him through this bad patch.

She decided not to call her dad in the end. It'd only add to his embarrassment and shame.

"Maybe it's time you talk about those demons," she said before she took a bite of her nicely toasted marshmallow. "Get them out in the open so they can be vanquished."

Malcolm rose and paced to the window. He would, she knew, tell her what was on his mind when he was good and ready. Trying to force things from him only caused him to shut down more. She learned that when she questioned him about his night terrors. Being patient and letting him come to her was the best way to handle things.

"They can't be vanquished." His small, desolate sigh caused her belly to cramp. "They won't ever go away. They're apart of me." The look he sent over his shoulder was achingly, brutally sad. "I keep telling you I can't be fixed."

Because she felt for him, Sorcha rose and went to him.

"And I refuse to believe that because I see how desperately you try." She rubbed his shoulders. "People who don't think they can be fixed don't try as hard as you. They just give up."

"Maybe I should."

"You don't mean that."

"It be better for everyone if I did."

"Not me." She rest her cheek against his back and curled her arms around his waist. Offering what comfort she could to her moody, unhappy friend. Malcom stiffened but didn't pull away as he usually did. It was progress as far as she was concerned. "And what about your mom and sister? The man you've talked about?"

"Gil."

"What about him? And his wife?"

"They'd have less to worry about without me around."

"Why don't you call him and tell him that?" she suggested. "I'm sure he'll have lots to say on the subject."

"I don't want to bother him."

"You won't be," she assured him as she pulled her phone from her pocket. "Now, give him a call."

After a few seconds of doing nothing, Malcolm reached out and took the phone.

"Why do you put up with me?" He looked at her from over his shoulder, brow drawn and gaze pensive. "I don't understand it. Others would have walked away by now."

"I don't put up with you." She slid her arm back around him. "And I'm not them."


	10. Chapter 10

Malcolm called her a little after seven. A frown furrowed Sorcha's brow. He was supposed to meet his date — a girl named Leslie — for dinner before heading over to the Valentine's Mixer being held by one of the fraternities. That he was already calling her wasn't a good sign.

"What happened?" she asked in lieu of a greeting. "It's only ten minutes after seven. Did you forget your wallet?"

Of course, he hadn't. Malcolm was anal retentive about his routines. After showering and shaving came dressing — a navy blue suit and stripped tie, no less — before he grabbed his wallet.

"_She isn't coming_."

"Not coming?" Sorcha's eyebrows winged up. "How do you know she's not coming? Maybe she's just running a bit late."

"_She had the maitre'd deliver a note with the word loser written on it_." Malcolm sounded so humiliated. So broken and tired. "_She's sitting at another table with a large group of people from school and they're all laughing_."

It tore at her heart to think of him sitting there in that restaurant and having a pack of sick animals laugh at him.

  
"She's there, is she?" Sorcha said with barely suppressed fury. "Well, that's just perfect."

"_Perfect_?" His confusion rippled through the phone. "_How's that perfect_?"

"You'll see."

"_Sorch_..."

"Gimme twenty minutes to get ready, Mal."

"_I don't want you to do anything_," he said, voice cracking. "_It'll just make everything worse than it already is_."

"Just trust me." She got up and headed towards Mandy's room. She'd need her help if she was going to pull this off in the time she had. "You'll like what I've got planned."

"_Sorch_—"

"Twenty minutes, Mal." She met Mandy's inquisitive gaze as she walked in. "I just need to change into something a little more appropriate."

She hung up before he could issue any further protest.

"Stood him up?" Sorcha nodded, too furious to form words. Not that she needed to say more. Mandy understood and was already moving to her closet. "Black strapless?"

"I was thinking your red backless."

Mandy looked over her shoulder at her, amusement in the depths of her hazel eyes. "Fire engine read to knock 'em dead..." A smirk tilted her lips. "Or are you trying to warm Mal up some?"

Heat crept up Sorcha's throat to warm her cheeks.

"Both?"

"About time," Mandy said as she turned back to the closet. "But I'd go with my red peasant instead of the backless if I was you."

"Why?"

"Because he stares at your legs."

Sorcha blinked. "He does?"

"Mhm." Mandy handed her the dress. "And make sure to spritz some of your perfume in your hair."

"Lavender and jasmine comforts him when he's agitated or upset."

"He likes to smell your hair after you shower." Mandy dug into her closet for a pair of shoes. "I caught him doing it at Christmas."

Sorcha stood there in stunned disbelief. Why it surprised her, she didn't know. It was totally a Malcolm thing.

"Really?" She managed once she was capable of speaking. "He smells my hair?"

"He does." Mandy indicated the dress. "Now, hurry up and get dressed. I'll do your hair and makeup."

Twenty-five minutes later, Sorcha strolled into _Chez Louis_. She spotted Malcolm instantly. He was doing his best to avoid being seen by hunching his shoulders and ducking his head. Raucous laughter on her left drew her attention. _There you are_, she thought, eyes narrowing into thin slits. _You wanna play games, oh, we'll play_.

Head held high, shoulders back, Sorcha sauntered towards where Malcolm sat staring into his water glass as if it held some answer for why he had been made into the punchline of a mean girl's joke.

"Sorry I'm late." She spoke just loud enough so the group sitting a few tables over could hear her. "Class didn't let out on time and I still needed to go home and change."

Malcolm's head snapped up. The relief that poured across his face quickly faded into something Sorcha likened to stunned amazement. She couldn't deny it gave a nice little boost to her ego to see him so dazed.

"Sorch..." he said as he pushed to his feet. "You look..." His eyes met hers. Brimmed with a mixture of stupefaction and appreciation. "You look amazing."

Sorcha let a self-satisfied smile curve her lips. "I'm glad you think so." She leaned in and placed a soft kiss to his lips. "And thank you."

"You didn't have to come in, though. I'd have met you outside if you text me."

"Oh, yes, I did." She offered her hand to him. "This wouldn't be half as much fun as it's gonna be if I stayed outside."

"Sorch—"

"She deserves this."

"No, it's not her fault. It's mine." His hand trembled in hers. "I shouldn't have said yes when she asked me to go to the Mixer."

"She shouldn't have asked you." She took his other hand in hers. "She played a very mean trick on you." And was going to pay for it. "So, way I see it? She's got this coming."

Malcolm gave in, too tired and heartsick to continue arguing. Sorcha squeezed his fingers reassuringly before turning to walk towards the exit. Of course, she took the scenic route, and made sure to pause at the table where the queen of the mean girls presided over her court.

"Leslie, I hope you weren't too upset about Malcolm choosing to break your date tonight?"

A frown formed between the blonde's eyes.

"What are you talking about?"

"He didn't get a chance to tell you?" Sorcha blinked her eyes wide. "Oh, well, I figured that was why you were over here with your friends..."

"No." Leslie's tone was biting. "He didn't tell me."

"Well, no matter." Sorcha waved a hand airily. "Worked out for all involved. Malcolm is going with me to the classic movie marathon downtown and Tad here can show off his daddy's new Porsche to you."

Suspicion darkened Leslie's face. She turned towards the man trying to melt into the seat beside her.

"How does _she_ know your father got a new Porsche?"

"Oh, didn't Tad tell you?" Sorcha kept her tone light and airy. "He invited me to the Mixer before asking you. Said he'd pick me up in his father's new Porsche and show me a _real_ good time."

"Oh, he did, did he?"

"Les, I—" he began but Sorcha cut him off before he could offer up a spectacular lie.

"Hey." She pointed out the window. "Isn't that your daddy's Porsche on the back of that tow truck?" Heads spun around so fast Sorcha swore they'd all end up with whiplash. "Guess he didn't want you borrowing his new car to impress some pampered little princess."

Satisfied then her work was done, Sorcha led a stunned Malcolm from the restaurant.


	11. Chapter 11

The week before spring break brought a multitude of due dates, two presentations, and an array of exams. Meals consisted of yogurt and trail mix or won ton soup from a place by campus. Sleep became an hour or two when their brains and bodies said they had enough. Outings were the public library or local bookstores.

By the time their last exam was done they were so drained they couldn't contemplate doing anything but exactly what they did: collapsing on the couch and not moving for the better part of an hour.

"Mother wants me to attend some charity event next week." Malcolm stirred enough to sigh. "She's even found me a date."

"Oh?" Sorcha heard his bitterness but chose not to comment on it. At that moment, anyway. "What's the event for?"

"Not a clue."

She managed to send him a teasing grin.

"Might wanna find out what you're saving before you get there."

"I would." A small, tired smile tugged at his lips. "But since I'm not attending, I don't overly care."

"Did you tell your mother you won't be attending?"

He sunk lower into the couch cushions.

"She'll know when I don't come home for spring break."

One brow shot up. The most she could muster given her exhausted state. "You're gonna stay on campus during break?"

"Yes." Mal pulled one of the decorative pillows into his arms. "I don't want a repeat of Valentine's."

Things had been better the last few weeks. Mal hadn't had any really bad episodes since they got back from Christmas break. Still, she wasn't sure leaving him alone was such a good idea. _What happens if he has an episode and hurts himself_? Nobody would be there to get him to the hospital or bandaged up.

"Why don't you come home with me?" she suggested. "We can spend break getting ahead of the reading material in Van Buren's class."

"I thought your parents were going to Hawaii this week?"

"They are," she said. "They left this morning, in fact."

"So…" A frown formed between his eyes. "We'd be in your house."

"Yeah, and?"

"We'd be alone."

Sorcha considered pointing out they were alone now but chose not too. No, she just said, "Yeah, and?" again to see what he'd say.

"Won't they object to me being there while they're away?"

"No, why would they?"

He frowned at her. "You know why, Sorch."

She rolled her eyes. "My folks know they don't have to worry about any hanky-panky going on between us."

"Hanky-panky?"

"Dad's words, not mine."

"You're joking?" His dimples winked when she shook her head. "He actually used the word hanky-panky?"

"Mhm." Her own lips trembled. "He also let me know that he's totally aware of the fact we spend close to all our time alone in this apartment but wisely chooses to believe we are just studying."

"He didn't get upset?"

"About us spending so much time together? No. Now, about there being hanky-panky going on?" She snickered. "He's _always_ concerned about that."

"But…"

"I assured him we aren't fooling around." A bit of the devil got into her and she sent him a slow, easy smile before purring, "After what I saw at Christmas, though…"

Embarrassed color warmed his cheeks. "You shouldn't have _seen_ anything."

"Oh, but I did." She worked up enough energy to send him a playful leer. "And it was _glorious, _Mal. Absolutely glorious."

He tossed a pillow at her. "You should have knocked."

"Sean told me the bathroom was free!"

"And you _believed_ him?"

"Hey, if my big brother wants to send me upstairs to check out my wet and naked friend?" A giggle nearly burst from her at his unamused look. "Who am I to say no?"

Malcolm closed his eyes, muttering, "You're not funny."

"I think I'm hilarious."

He didn't reply.


	12. Chapter 12

In the afternoon, beneath a salubrious sun, Sorcha was stretched out on the back deck with Malcolm. They were completely alone. No family to bug them, no homework to concern them, and no pressing life matters bogging them down.

They were just two college students enjoying a relaxing spring day.

Well, _she_ was relaxing.

Malcolm was busy reading the next chapter in one of their textbooks.

After the pressure of the last few weeks, all the tests and papers and projects due, she needed this downtime to recharge. Especially before they headed back and got weighed down with more papers, tests, and other crap before the end of the semester.

Only the sound of Malcolm turning pages broke the quiet. Sorcha heaved an amused sigh as she watched his eyes quickly skim the page.

"You're supposed to be relaxing here, Mal."

"I never relax." His eyes flicked over to hers before returning to the book. "You know that."

Sorcha took the textbook from him and tossed it into a chair. Mal frowned his disapproval but didn't offer a protest.

"We only have three days of vacation left," she said. "Let's enjoy them."

"I am enjoying them."

"Mhm." She traced a finger up his thigh. Playful. Daring. "You're already thinking about getting out your other textbook."

Mal's lips twitched. "Maybe."

"You do and I will be forced to do something drastic to distract you."

Curiosity brimmed in his eyes. _Eyes_, she saw now as she met them, _that are more blue than green_. A sign Malcolm was, for the moment, happy.

"Such as?"

"I'll take my top off."

"If that's what you're threatening to do to distract me…" His dimples winked. "Seems I should get out my textbook."

Sorcha snorted a laugh. "Nice to know that you can be distracted by a half-naked woman."

"I'm crazy," he joked, "but not that crazy."

"You're not crazy. Just wound a bit too tight. Though, gotta admit you were pretty relaxed after last night. Even recall you went to sleep without the usual fuss."

"You wore me out."

"Had a feeling that intense physical activity would knock you out for a few hours."

"Right." Mal hummed a laugh. "I didn't expect you to drag me to a shooting range to shoot bow and arrows."

"Where else did you expect us to shoot bow and arrows?"

"We could have set a target up here in the backyard."

"Mrs. Cafferty would call my folks and tattle on us." Sorcha rest her elbows on the sun warmed deck and rest her chin on her hands. "She did after Sean built me a couple of targets for practicing with my paintball gun."

"You do paintball?"

"Oh, yeah." A smirk screwed up one corner of her mouth. "I'm the best sniper on our team, in fact."

Mal snorted a laugh. "That doesn't surprise me."

"Hey, when you go out paint balling with my brother and his friends?" She lazily swatted at a fly. "You will be a colorful mess within minutes if you don't outsmart them."

"His friends don't mind his sister tagging along with them?"

"No way." A grin played about Sorcha's lips as she thought about Reggie, Mike and RJ. "They need me on their team."

A quizzical frown tugged at his brow. "Why?"

"Cause their girlfriends massacre them on the field."

A chuckle burst from Malcolm. "So you defend their honor by taking out their girlfriends?"

"Well, there might be a bit of friendly fire here and there..."

"That's cheating."

"All's fair in love and paint-balling."

"I've never gone paint-balling." Mal's soft sigh blew across her moist flesh, causing her senses to tingle and her blood to boil. "Mother would never have allowed it. Would say it's too dangerous. Messy. Beneath me because I'm rich."

Sorcha had a feeling that why Jessica Whitly wouldn't support her son going out to a shooting range was less about how filthy he might get and more about the violence involved. Anything that in her mind could possibly cause Malcolm to become like his father she'd shoot down.

Sorcha didn't tell him that, though. No, she just said, "When Sean and the others come home on leave we will all go."

She didn't add _if they came home on leave_. Her brother and his friends would come home from Afghanistan. There was no doubt about that. They'd come home and they'd go paint-balling and everything would be like it always was. She reached for the sunblock next to a bottle of water before sitting up.

"Put some of this on my back, please?"

"You do know that when the skin absorbs ultraviolet radiation from the sun that it increases your risk of skin damage," Mal said as he took the bottle from her. "And that prolonged exposure can result in dry, wrinkled skin, premature aging, and skin cancer."

"Yes, Doctor Carter," she teased as she turned her back to him. "That's why I'm having you put sunblock on me."

"You should have put it on before," Mal chided as he squirted some of the sunblock into his hand. "Especially since you've been laying out... I didn't know you had a tattoo."

Sorcha choked back a laugh. "Way to focus here, Mal."

"Nos mos vallo." His fingers lightly traced the words inked onto the back of her neck. "What does it mean?"

"'This we'll defend." Sorcha silently prayed Malcolm wouldn't notice her voice was lower, throatier than normal. Not that she could help it. Everywhere he touched left a trail of keen-edged longing in its wake. "It's the army slogan."

"You got this for Sean."

"Mhm." Sorcha forced herself to focus on the water glistening in the swimming pool to keep her spiraling thoughts from entering dangerous territory. Not that they weren't already traveling down that forbidden pathway. Now wasn't the time and here definitely not the place for any of the things her overactive imagination was suggesting. "We got tattooed together, actually."

"He got the same tattoo as you?"

"We were going to get matching tattoos originally but Dad suggested getting something that'd be more personal and more closely representative of us."

"Which is why you got the army slogan."

"Yep."

"What did Sean get?"

"The word Ohana."

"Ohana?" Sorcha heard the frown in his voice. "What does that mean?"

"Ohana means family." She reached back to take hold of his hands, drew them, and his arms around her. Subtle manipulation. "And family means nobody is left behind."

His chin dropped to her shoulder. "I'm surprised you didn't get something like the bat-symbol or a lightsaber."

"I have a bat-symbol, actually."

"You do?" His surprise made her smile. "Where?"

Sorcha sent him a playful grin. "Wanna play find the tattoo to find out?"

"No." His eyebrows drew together over the bridge of his nose. "You have more than one?"

"I have five in total."

The way Malcolm's eyes went blurry and unfocused told her he was trying to picture where the tattoos might be located. Sorcha rest back against him, a small, satisfied smile curving her lips.

"Where?" Mal finally asked.

"Uh uh," Sorcha teased. "You gotta find 'em." She waggled her eyebrows at him. Fun. Flirtatious. Openly daring Mal to take the bait she dangled before him. "Be a prize in it if you can find 'em all."

"What sort of prize?"

"Use your imagination, Mal."


	13. Chapter 13

"Gonna start by taking your shoes, Bright."

"My shoes?" Malcolm's eyebrows shot up to his hairline. He stared down at his sneakers and then at her. "Why do you want to start by taking my shoes?"

"Because taking off things is the point of strip poker."

Malcolm sent her a wry look. "I'm not getting naked here, Sorch."

"Neither am I."

_Not in my parents house, anyway_, she amended silently. Back at hers and Mandy's apartment was an entirely different deal, though. And just because she couldn't get him naked _now_ didn't mean she couldn't get him _reasonably _unclothed.

"If we aren't getting naked then what's the point of playing?"

"You were the one who said you didn't want to play for money," she said with a shrug. "This just provides stakes. Establishes a winner."

It also provided her with the perfect opportunity to turn the heat up a little more. She had been doing so since spring break to interesting results. Clueless to the hows of dating Malcolm Bright might be… _immune_ to her charms he most certainly was not.

"We need to agree on what items to take off then."

"Well, I'm thinking shoes, socks, necklaces, watches, bracelets, and rings as fair game." She waggled her eyebrows suggestively. "Unless you want to add pants to the list of things we can take off."

"Absolutely not."

"Party pooper."

His dimples winked. "I keep telling you I'm no fun."

"You keep hanging out with me and you'll be a barrel of fun in no time." Sorcha removed the deck of cards from the box she kept them in. "So, we agree then to play until one of us loses our shirt?"

"You have two shirts on while I only have one," Mal pointed out with a small smirk. "I call that unfair advantage."

"It's to keep things parental friendly."

"Parental friendly?" One eyebrow lifted. "Is this another of those hanky-panky things?"

"Yep." Sorcha shuffled the deck. "See, _you_ can end up shirtless and it won't bother them. _I_ end up shirtless and you and Dad will be having a long talk out on the back porch."

"Ah." Malcolm's head ducked to either hide his smile or his response to her ending up topless. Sorcha hoped more for the latter than the former. "Glad to know you want to avoid me getting a long lecture from your dad."

"Hey." A playful grin rugged at her lips. "What're friends for?"

He peeked at her from between the strands of hair that fell adorably into his face.

"I'm beginning to suspect mine wants to get my clothes off."

"Any sane woman would want to get your clothes off, Mal." Sorcha set the deck of cards in front of him. "Especially if they knew what was beneath them clothes like I do."

"They'd run once they find out I'm broken."

"Only _you_ see _you_ as broken."

"Others see it, too, Sorch."

"They only see what's on the surface. If they took the time to get to know you, they'd see you as I do."

Malcolm picked up the deck but did not cut it. "You've seen me at my worst and are still my friend." He lifted eyes more green than blue to hers. "Why?"

"Because a real friend is the one who stays when the shit hits the fan." She indicated the deck. "Deal."

"I'm surprised these aren't Batman or Star Wars cards."

Her lips twitched. "Be grateful they aren't tarot cards."

"Why?"

"Don't want to cause a rash of unusual deaths because one of us got a full house, do we?”

Malcolm handed her the deck without saying a word.


	14. Chapter 14

Her phone chirping drug Sorcha from the lovely dream she was having. Grumbling obscenities, and vowing bloody and swift retribution on whoever was on the other end of the phone, she flipped over to snatch the offensive device from the nightstand.

The name of the caller shoved all thoughts of murder and sleep to the back of her mind.

"Mal?" Sorcha glanced at her clock radio as she pushed herself upright. Three in the morning was an unusual time for him to call. _Unless_... "Did you have a night terror?"

"_Can you come to the door_?" His voice wobbled, sending pinpricks of alarm shooting through her. "_I, uh, need some help_."

"Yeah, sure, gimme a sec."

The line went dead. Not that it mattered.

Sorcha was racing for the door before he even said he needed help.

For Mal to call this early?

To come over?

It was something serious.

She just prayed it wasn't _emergency room_ serious.

Sorcha took a deep, calming breath before pulling open the door. Mal stood there in a pair of cotton sleep pants and one of his Harvard t-shirts. He wore no shoes but did mercifully have on socks.

He also had a bloody towel to his forehead.

"What happened?" she cried as she reached up to cover his hand with hers. "Mal?"

"I had a..." he broke off, sighed. Shame and misery warred with each other on his face. "One of my restraints let go and I fell out of the bed. Hit my head on the nightstand."

_And split it open but good_, Sorcha realized as she carefully lifted up the towel to get a better look at the injury. The wound was the length and width of her pinky and still bleeding quite profusely.

"Come on, let's get you to the couch," she said. "I'm gonna go wake Mandy and have her take a look at this."

"It's gonna need stitches." Mal's resignation almost made her smile. "I can already tell."

"Yeah, it is." Sorcha gave him what she hoped was her most reassuring smile as she helped him over to the couch. "At least you'll have a cool story to tell people."

"Don't think me falling out of bed and hitting my head will make all that great a story."

"Tell them it happened while having wild and crazy sex."

"Believable." Mal huffed a laugh. "Since sex is dangerous."

"People have died during it."

"Did you know _la petite mort_ refers specifically to that sensation which occurs post orgasm and which is likened to death?"

"That you know that surprises me." Gently, and with great amusement, she eased him back on the couch. "And if you weren't bleeding like a stuck pig, I'd dare you to prove it."

"You would."

"Hey, I'm not the one with the intrigued look on his face here."

Embarrassed heat filled his cheeks. "Can we talk about this when I'm not bleeding?"

"I'm filing it under conversations to have when Bright isn't bleeding."

"Long list, I know."

"You're an accident prone idiot but you're our accident prone idiot." She moved the towel to again look at the wound. "Who has a lovely goose egg on his forehead."

"Course, I do."

"Gonna have a scar."

"Not a surprise."

"If it wasn't on your forehead you could do what I did."

He couldn't contain his curiosity. "What's that?"

"Get a tattoo over the scar."

His lips twitched. "Is that why you have that proverb on your right hip?"

"It was that or barbed wire and since it was barbed wire that caused the scar..." She shrugged. "I went with the proverb."

_Love without friendship is like a shadow without the sun_.

The words summed up her relationship with Malcolm. Sorcha started to suspect she was in love with him during spring break. She might even have fallen in love with him the moment she saw him.

Seated there in that flight-or-fight seat looking so lost and lonely it broke her heart.

He was definitely the sun caressing her shadow.

The light within her soul.

The song in her heart.

_And one day_, she thought as she went to wake Mandy, _I'll tell him that_.

Because the accident prone idiot would just scoff if she told him she loved him now.


	15. Chapter 15

"I want you to consider something, Mal." Mandy set a bowl of mixed berries and a cup of vanilla yogurt on the counter in front of him. "Because I think it's the best solution all around."

It was the _only_ solution to Mandy's way of thinking. She just didn't tell him that. Malcolm had come a long way from the shy, withdrawn, and adorably awkward guy Sorcha brought home with her. Still, there was a certain boundary between them.

One she respected out of love for both Malcolm and Sorcha.

Mandy hadn't imagined herself getting close to Malcolm. He wasn't the usual sort of guy she hung out with. Like Sorcha, though, she'd been drawn to his sadness, his loneliness, and his silent need to simply feel like he _belonged_.

Like he mattered.

Her younger sister had been like Malcolm in many ways. Mandy couldn't remember how many cuts she cleaned, bruises she iced or sore muscles she massaged because Tara pushed herself too hard at the gym in an attempt to exhaust herself enough to sleep.

She couldn't remember all the times she sat on the bathroom floor with her sister's head in her lap, stroking her hair, and keeping pressure on a cut that went too deep.

She lost count of all the late night phone calls from their mom telling her that Tara disappeared again. The frantic searches and paranoia about where she might find her sister and in what condition this time.

She forgot how many trips there were to the ER. The drunken stupors and parade of girlfriends who fed her sister pills that didn't mix well with the cocktail of drugs she already took to help her function.

Maybe that was why she felt so strongly about Malcolm. She saw so much of Tara in him and wanted to help him as she couldn't help her sister.

"What is?" Suspicion crept across his face. "What are you talking about?"

"I want you to consider moving in with Sorcha and I next year."

Mal blinked those gorgeous baby blues at her, clearly surprised by the suggestion.

"Oh, but..."

"You already live with us now," she pointed out before he could launch whatever protest he had in mind. "This just makes it official."

His head tilted to one side. _Profiling me_, she realized, eyes remaining locked on his. _Trying to figure out if I'm being sincere or setting him up. _

That he doubted the offer, hurt. Not for herself but for him. _Trust is earned_, as her grandfather used to say. _And should never be broken. _

"Why do you want me to consider moving in with you and Sorch?"

"Well, living together makes it easier for us to keep an eye on one another."

"Keep an eye on me, you mean." Mal's face reflected his dismay and discomfort. "Because I'm such a mess."

"No." Mandy pushed the bowl of berries closer to him. Subtly encouraging him to try and eat a few. Not that he did. "I know Mr. and Mrs. Corbin have been concerned about Sorch and I living alone. Especially after the recent string of break-in's that have happened. Us living together will give them one less thing to worry about."

"My mother won't be so thrilled about it."

"We can figure out how to get around her objections later." She poured some coffee into her mug. "What you think about it comes first."

Malcolm slowly reached for the yogurt. "Did you talk with Sorcha about it?"

"We talked about it last night while you were in class."

One eyebrow arched. "And she's okay with it?"

Mandy had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep herself from blurting out how thrilled Sorcha was at the prospect of them living together.

"She said to talk with you." The truth, insomuch as Malcolm needed to know of it. "But agreed living together made a lot of sense."

"I'll think about it." He opened the yogurt but didn't reach for a spoon. "Okay?"

"Okay."

With Mal, it was the best she could expect.


	16. Chapter 16

"You don't like me hugging you, do you?"

The question seemed to catch Malcolm by surprise. He turned away from the documentary they were watching for a final project in cognitive development to stare at her.

"What?"

"You have an aversion to me hugging you."

Malcolm's brow puckered and a mixture of different things flickered across his face. _Debating what to tell me_, Sorcha realized as he reached for the remote and shut off the documentary.

"I don't mind you hugging me." He set the remote down but didn't look at her. "Why do you think I do?"

"Because I saw your face in the mirror when I hugged you earlier. You seemed to check out after I hugged you."

_He completely disassociated is what he did_, Sorcha amended silently. _His eyes got glassy, his face went blank, it was like he wasn't even here in the room with me_.

"It's not because of you." His eyes dropped to his hands. "I promise."

"Well, that's a relief." He frowned at her sarcasm. Sorcha sent him a teasing grin. "What? It's the truth."

"You and sarcasm. Don't!" He said before she could open her mouth. "I don't need to hear that quote from Oscar Wilde again."

"Party pooper," she huffed. "Okay, fine, since you won't let me have my fun, why don't you tell me why you dislike hugs so much."

"It's not that I dislike them..."

"It's kinda obvious you don't like them. Or," she corrected as he heaved a sigh fraught with a conflagration of emotions, "it's you're not comfortable with them."

"I always think of my father when someone hugs me," he finally admitted in a small voice. _A child's voice_, Sorcha realized as her eyes narrowed into thin slits. "Remembering all the times before he was arrested."

Sorcha folded her legs beneath her as she allowed the weight of that admission to roll through her mind. On one hand she could understand why Malcolm had such an aversion to being hugged.

Martin Whitly was the lowest of the low.

The vilest of men.

However, he was still Malcolm's father.

The man who read to him, took care of him when he was sick, snuck him hot chocolate...

"That's also why you had that meltdown when I offered you hot chocolate," she said as realization dawned. "And why you refused to read the _Count of Monte Cristo_ for Horowitz's class. They remind you of your dad."

Malcolm didn't answer. He just pulled his knees into his chest and folded his arms around them. The forlorn expression on his face broke her heart. Sorcha scooted closer to him and set a hand on his shoulder.

"I can't imagine what you're feeling right now, Mal," she said quietly. "My dad hugged me and read to me and sang to me all the time, too. I've never wondered if it was fake."

"Your father isn't a predatory psychopath."

"No, he's not," she agreed, rubbing his back in slow circles. "But just because your father is the scum of the Earth doesn't mean you can't remember those times."

"They were all a lie." Bitterness dripped from every word. "He didn't mean any of it."

"I'm sure he did in his own way." She had to believe that. For his sake if for nothing else. "I don't think it was all a lie."

Malcolm turned red-rimmed eyes to her. "Then why did he kill all those people?"

Sorcha ached to put her arms around him but had a feeling he'd reject it. She settled inside for combing her fingers through the hair at his nape.

"He isn't normal, Malcolm. He's a predatory psychopath as you said." Along with a dozen other things she didn't say aloud. "He couldn't fight his inclinations. Even for you."

Malcolm sat there, saying nothing, doing nothing. Sorcha wanted to comfort him in some way so she started to hum softly as she went back to rubbing his back in slow circles.

"Sorch?"

"Hm?"

"Would you hold me?" Raw, naked vulnerability swam across his face. Haunted those beautiful eyes that she'd never forget in a thousand lifetimes. "Please?"

It wasn't like he had to ask twice. She folded her arms around him and drew him against her.

"Yanno, there are scientific benefits to hugging," she said as she rest her head against his crown. "It stimulates the thymus gland for one. Lowers blood pressure. Improves sleep..."

"Nothing improves my sleep patterns."

"Because you're always stressed. Oh, hugging helps reduce stress and anxiety, too."

Malcolm hummed a laugh. "Are you trying to pull a me here?"

"By spouting off random facts about the benefits of hugging?"

"Mhm."

"Just doing my part to get that brain of yours to think about something else."

"Ah." The sound vibrated through him. "Well, then, you forgot they stimulate the memory center of the brain."

Sorcha sighed dramatically. "Well, there you go. That's why I keep forgetting shit on exams. Nobody hugs me beforehand."

"I'll hug you before our final on Tuesday."

"You better hug me _after_ our final on Tuesday."

His arms crept around her as he let out a small chuckle. "The exam won't be that bad."

"Says the man with the only A in the class."


	17. Chapter 17

Sorcha wanted to cry but stopped herself before a single tear had the chance to fall. It would only make Malcolm feel worse than he already was going to feel once he woke up.

It was hard not to give into the temptation, though.

He looked so pale beneath the myriad of cuts and bruises covering his face. One eye was swollen and the other not too far off. More bruising covered his chest and abdomen. One arm would need casting once the swelling went down and he'd be on crutches for a few weeks as his knee healed from the bruising it sustained.

_My fault_ was the only thought inside her head as she continued to sit by his hospital, her good hand wrapped around the one that trembled even as he lay unconscious, and murmuring soft, nonsensical things to hopefully keep his nightmares at bay.

_This is all my fault_.

If she and Mandy hadn't drug him out to dinner and drinks — not that any of them had one — he wouldn't be laying here in a hospital bed, beat all to hell, and with weeks of recovery ahead of him.

The hospital door opened and Sorcha looked up as a dark-haired man in a white turtleneck, brown jacket and gray trousers entered. She recognized him from one of the pictures Malcolm kept on a desk in his bedroom.

"Detective Arroyo?"

"Yes." A warm smile curved his lips. "And you must be Sorcha."

"I'm glad you came." She hated how thin and reedy her voice sounded. "I didn't know who else to call."

"I'm glad you called me." He approached the bed. "How is he?" Tears welled again. Sorcha tried to pull them back but one escaped before she could stop it. "Whoa, hey." He set a hand gently on her shoulder. Offering much needed comfort and support. "It's okay. He's going to be okay. Believe me, Bright is much stronger than he looks."

"Yes, but he wouldn't be here if Mandy and I hadn't forced him to come with us tonight."

"You haven't learned that Malcolm Bright does what Malcolm Bright wants to do, have you?"

"Oh, no, I know that." She sent him a watery smile. "I've dealt with his stubborn ass plenty the last nine months."

"Then you know that nothing you said or did would have stopped him from going with you."

"He didn't want to go." Her shoulders drooped beneath the weight of guilt on them. "Mandy and I drug him along. If we hadn't..."

"Then the two of you might be the ones who got hurt." His tone was the same one her dad used whenever he was reminding her about what the other side of a situation looked like. It filled that void in her. The one desperately wishing her dad was here to make everything alright. "Bright wouldn't feel good knowing that he could have been there to save you and wasn't."

"They'd have hurt him worse if I hadn't seen that patrol car and screamed my full head off."

"You did the right thing." His hand gently squeezed her shoulder. Support and comfort. The kind only a dad could give. "Now," he said as he stepped back. "We focus on getting Bright better."

"He's going to fight us every step of the way."

"You've definitely met his stubborn side."

"On more than one occasion."

"Then you already know how to deal with it."

"With love and patience?" Her lips crept up into a smile. "Or by being as stubborn as him?"

"All three."


	18. Chapter 18

Gil flipped through a magazine, only half listening to the television he turned on more for the noise than any real interest in any of the programming that played.

The noise helped lull the girl — _Sorcha_, he corrected as he closed the magazine and set it aside — to sleep.

Sleep had been the furtherest thing from either of their minds given how frantic the past twenty-four hours had been.

Bright woke up not long after he got to the hospital. He had been in such pain and discomfort his doctor wanted to administer a dose of morphine in his IV. Sorcha refused it, firmly declaring Bright didn't want anything like that administered to him because of how it locked him inside his mind.

Gil found himself taken aback at how much Sorcha actually knew about the kid. It showed a remarkable amount of trust, something Bright struggled with thanks to Dr. Whitly.

The doctor finally compromised and gave him Toradol, instead.

Sorcha protecting Bright didn't surprise Gil. The Corbin name was not unfamiliar to him. Her father, Ian, worked for the NYPD before joining the FBI. She also had two uncles and an aunt who were decorated police officers.

_And her uncle is the current Deputy Commissioner_.

Bright's girlfriend was what some people would call law enforcement royalty.

Not that either the kid or Sorcha would admit that's what she was.

Gil didn't know if it was denial on their parts or a case of not being ready to make their relationship public.

Given how Jessica reacted to the last girl the kid dated?

He could understand why Bright was choosing to keeping things quiet.

This, though? This was going to bring their relationship out into the open.

"They still asleep?"

Gil glanced up as his wife, Jackie, entered the room. She held two styrofoam cups of what he suspected would be the worst coffee he ever drank.

"Sorcha woke up when her dad called but he got her to go back to sleep."

Jackie handed him one of the cups before moving over to tug the blanket Bright pushed off back up.

"It's nice to see he's found someone. I worried that Harvard would end up like boarding school was for him."

"Have a feeling Bright didn't find her so much as she found him." Gil took a sip of the vending machine coffee and grimaced. Bad as he expected but best there was given the situation. "We both know he tends to be oblivious when it comes to anything that isn't related to something he's interested in."

"Mm, sounds like someone else I know."

Gil slanted a look at her as she took a seat next to him.

"Are you insinuating you found me?"

She sent him a teasing grin.

"I did find you."

He shifted towards her.

"I recall first seeing you outside the office."

"That was after."

One brow quirked.

"After?"

"Yes, after as in after I brought you an ice pack for the fat lip and black eye you acquired in that fight you got into."

Gil chuckled softly as he remembered how he got those injuries.

"That's what happens when you get into a fight with a guy five inches and a hundred pounds heavier than you."

She patted his knee.

"You held your own as I recall."

"Broke his nose."

It was not one of his proudest moments. Getting into fights was something he tried to avoid when and where he could. _Always another way to solve problems_. A lesson he instilled in the kid.

"Learn to solve problems with logic and words instead of your fists," he told him after Bright lashed out at one particular bully. "Only use violence as a last resort."

Bright shifted in the bed, pulling at the restraints he insisted on after waking. A low moan ripped from his throat. Gil went to get up but Jackie stayed him with a hand on his arm.

"Let her take care of it."

Gil sunk back into the chair as Sorcha leaned down to the kid's, murmuring low, nonsensical things to him. When those failed to ease his agitation, she slid a hand into his, and started singing to him.

_The same song her father sung to get her to go back to sleep_, he realized as Bright's breathing evened out and he stopped fidgeting.

"Seems she's developed her own way of coping with his night terrors."

"I just hope she's willing to go the distance," Gil murmured. "He can't take anyone else walking out on him."

"Honey, that girl is all in." Jackie's hand settled atop his, warm and comforting. "Same as we are."

* * *


	19. Chapter 19

Sorcha stared at the brownstone in front of her with a mix of trepidation and dread. She shouldn't have come here. The entire drive here she told herself it was a mistake to come, she was overstepping her bounds, and would likely get the door slammed in her face.

The only other time she visited Malcolm in his family home had been when his mother and sister hadn't been there. That was before the incident, though. The one that saw her son beaten all to hell because a couple of drunk assholes couldn't take no for an answer.

If Jessica Whitly didn't have her arrested the second she saw her, Sorcha would honestly be shocked and amazed.

She couldn't go the entire summer without seeing Malcolm, though. It had already been a month since she saw him. If one

counted three minutes as much of a visit. Something neither she nor Malcolm did.

_He begged me to come see him_.

No, Malcolm outright pleaded with her to come and visit. The desperation that had been in his voice sent up huge red flags. It meant he was spiraling and needed help with getting things back under control.

That, more than anything, bolstered her flagging confidence. Sorcha checked her appearance in the car window before walking up and knocking on the front door. A sour-faced man opened the door and peered down at her.

"Mrs. Whitly isn't receiving guests today."

"I'm here to see Malcolm," she said before the man could shut the door in her face. "I'm a friend of his."

Suspicion darkened the man's face. "Are you indeed?"

"Yes, I am." She held up her keys to show her keychain. "We attend Harvard together."

She half expected the dour fellow to sniff and shut the door. Instead, he sighed and stepped back to allow her to enter. Sorcha stepped into the foyer and was enveloped by the splendor around her. Everything around her screamed old money. _Not a surprise given the affluence of the Milton family_.

"Wait here," the man told her as he headed for the stairs. "I will inform Mr. Whitly that you are here."

It was on the tip of Sorcha's tongue to correct the man. Malcolm chose the name Bright to carve out an identify for himself.

To separate himself from his father.

She kept silent.

This wasn't her home and she had no rights to correct the man.

As she waited, she looked around. There wasn't a speck of dirt anywhere. A cobweb? Forget it. There was no coatrack by the door. No winter boots neatly stacked beneath it.

A quick glance into the room on her left showed her another pristine room.

_This isn't a home_, she thought as she folded her arms around herself. _It's a museum_.

It was little wonder why Malcolm didn't like coming home on breaks. Not only did he have to deal with the house being a cold, oppressive place, he also had the memories of his father being led away from here in handcuffs to deal with.

"Hello."

Sorcha turned to see a pretty girl in riding clothes standing three steps up from the bottom stair. She let her lips curve into a warm smile.

"You must be Ainsley."

"And you must be Sorcha."

"Yes."

Ainsley bounced the rest of the way down stairs. A bundle or energy that was vastly different from her brother's.

Malcolm Bright was a bird with broken wings.

Ainsley Whitly, on the other hand, was a bird with her wings spread wide.

None of the pain that haunted Malcolm's eyes existed in the dark brown ones studying her. Ainsley was a bright and bubbly girl with a sunny smile to accompany her cheery disposition.

"Malcolm has spoken so much about you that I feel like I know you already."

"I feel the same way." Sorcha smiled and indicated her riding clothes with a wave of her hand. "He says you're an excellent equestrian."

Ainsley dismissed that with a laugh. "I hardly qualify as excellent."

"Mm, don't sell yourself short," Sorcha said. "Mal told me you're taking intermediate lessons."

"You ride?"

"I haven't in years but I did as a child, yes."

"What stopped you?"

Sorcha hummed a laugh.

"Boys."

Ainsley let out a small laugh. Heels clicking on the marble floor alerted them to the arrival of the one person Sorcha hoped to avoid while here in the Whitly home. _Oh boy_, she thought as Jessica Whitly exited the living room.

"Ainsley, are you..." Jessica Whitly stopped short when she saw Sorcha. "_You_."

Sorcha managed to not flinch. "Mrs. Whitly."

"I thought I made it clear that while I cannot keep you from seeing my son while he is away at school that I do not want you interacting with him when he's home."

"Mom!" Ainsley protested. "You cannot blame Sorcha for what happened! They were—"

"Ainsley, stay out of this."

"No—"

"It's alright," Sorcha assured the younger girl. "I understand why your mother is angry at me. Had I not made Malcolm go with me to that pub then he wouldn't have gotten hurt."

"That's excusing those bullies for what they did."

A glint of fire burned in Ainsley's eyes. If not for the tenseness of the situation, Sorcha might have been impressed. As it was, she needed to calm the girl down before she ended up in an argument with her mother.

"Our choices are the ones we must accept the fault for." Sorcha parroted the words her dad would have said if he was there. "And I accept mine. Had I not decided to go out that night than Malcolm wouldn't have gotten assaulted by those bullies."

"You didn't know they'd wait in that alley for you."

"No, we didn't," she agreed with a nod. "But had we chosen not to go to that pub than we'd never have been in that situation. That's the choice I must accept."

"Yes, and my son wouldn't be spending his summer vacation going to physical therapy."

"Nobody regrets what happened more than I do." She'd always regret how Malcolm got hurt because of her stupidity. "I wish I could go back and undo what happened. I can't. All I can do is apologize and make up for my mistake."

"Yes, well, that's lovely of you to say but I still don't feel as if you are the right company for my son to keep."

The words stung. Sorcha couldn't deny they did. However, Jessica Whitly was wrong about her not being the right company for Malcolm. The way she saw it? She was exactly what her soon needed.

"I'm afraid we will have to disagree there, Mrs. Whitly." Sorcha squared her shoulder before she locked gazes with her. "Because I'm exactly the kind of company your son needs."

"And why is that?"

"Because I see Malcolm for Malcolm. I care about _him_. I don't judge him when he has a bad day or wakes up screaming from the monster that haunts him."

Surprise flitted across Mrs. Whitly's face.

"You know about his night terrors?"

"I do, yes." Sorcha nodded. "And I'm not afraid of them or of him."

"Why not?"

"Because there's no reason to be afraid of him."

"We have to strap him…"

"I've learned his breathing patterns so I can wake him." Sorcha tugged the strap of the bag she brought with her higher onto her shoulder. "Same as I've learned to gauge his moods, carry snacks I know he will eat, to fix foods that won't make him sick."

"Why?" Jessica Whitly demanded. "What do you hope to gain from associating with my son?"

"I do not associate with Malcolm in hope of gaining anything." Sorcha let some of her insult coat her voice. "I do it because I care about him." She lifted her head as she heard crutches on the landing above them. How long Malcolm had been listening she didn't know. Not that it mattered. She looked back at his mother. "I'm his friend, Mrs. Whitly."

_And I always will be_, she added as Malcolm started making his way down stairs.


	20. Chapter 20

They were alone in the living room when Malcolm turned to her sand said, "I can't believe you stood up to my mother like that."

To Sorcha's way of thinking, it was long past time someone stood up the venerable Jessica Whitly and told her what was what.

Especially in regards to Malcolm.

His troubled expression told her he had some definite concerns about what she said.

Which was why she didn't tell him she'd have said a whole lot more if he hadn't been coming down the stairs.

_Some of those things he should hear before anyone else._

Especially his mother.

"Mal, I had to stand up to her." Sorcha set shifted to face him. "I had to tell her that I see you for you. That I'm here for you. That I care for you. That I'm your friend."

"I know." Malcolm's eyes lifted to her. Openly curious. Slightly vulnerable. Deeply grateful. "It's just Mother can be..."

"Fiercely protective of her son?" A small smile curved her lips. "Yeah, I kinda got that. Mom's the same way."

"She is?"

"Mhm." Sorcha lifted her cup and took a sip of her tea. "Mandy had to stand up to her and tell her she wouldn't stop seeing Sean when Mom threatened to put an end to their relationship."

His cup rattled in the saucer with the force of the tremor that shook his hand. Sorcha reached over and took it from him to avoid it tipping over and spilling tea over the pristine white couch they sat on.

"I'm sor—"

"Don't apologize for how you feel." She smiled to soften her brusque tone. "The only way to deal with emotions is by pouring them out on the table and sorting through them."

"I'm not especially good at doing that."

"Yeah," she lightly teased. "I've kinda figured that out."

"Along with other things." Malcolm stared down at his hands, his expression pensive. "Why you put up with me is beyond my ability to comprehend. You could be friends with anyone..."

"I choose to be friends with you." She slid over beside him and set her hand atop his. "I chose to be your friend the moment I met you."

"Why?" He refused to look at her. Terrified she'd see the raw, naked vulnerability on his face she heard in his voice. "That's what I don't understand. Why did you choose to be my friend?"

"Honestly?"

"No." He peeked at her from between the strands of hair that fell across his face. "Lie to me."

_Well, he's worked up to making snarky little comments_, she mused as she hummed a soft laugh. _Definite improvement from the sullen and moody man who joined us in the foyer._

"It was your hands that caught my attention."

He turned his head to look at her, one eyebrow cocked. "My hands?" His tone was wry. "Seriously?"

"No, it was your eyes actually." She chuckled as he sighed. "I'm serious, actually. It was your hands that I first noticed and which made me decide to sit next to you."

His gaze was pensive. _Trying to figure out why his hands attracted my attention_. His lips finally kicked up at the corners.

"My tremor."

"Well, that," she said, "and because they're also beautiful."

He rolled his eyes and scoffed, "They are not."

"Are too."

Mal shook his head. "You're being silly."

"You need silliness in your life." Sorcha slid her fingers between his and stroked her thumb over the back of his hand. "And happiness and love and someone to take away your computer and textbooks and make you sleep or eat."

"Sleep issues," Malcolm pointed out with another small smile. "Food issues."

"You're a roller coaster ride, baby."

"A broke—"

"Nope."

"Sorc—"

"Nope," Sorcha said firmly. "We're not arguing this again."

"Because I'm—"

"You're not broken," she repeated, squeezing his fingers, "and that's final."


	21. Chapter 21

"I don't remember anything."

Sorcha glanced up from the chessboard set on the floor between them, a frown creasing her brow. Malcom wasn't looking at her but at the board, his brow creased as he concentrated on how to beat her for the twentieth time.

She'd agreed to let him teach her how to play since neither of them felt like doing much else. Nothing good was on television and they couldn't sneak out for a drive since Sean's car broke down as she made her way into the city.

Thankfully, it died near Gil's precinct. Helping out for an hour earned her a ride and a chance to make plans to get Malcolm away from his mother's for a small vacation.

_Something he definitely needs_, she decided as she chose to move her bishop. Gil had been in agreement with her when she mentioned taking Malcolm to the Jersey shore.

"_Leave getting him away from Jessica to me_," he told her as he pulled up in front of the house.

Sorcha didn't doubt him. Like her own parents, Gil, and his wife, Jackie saw a young man desperately in need of all the love and support he could be given and gave it.

"You don't remember anything when you wake up," she said as she watched him consider what piece he'd use to crush her, "or you don't remember anything that happens prior to the events in your nightmare?"

"I don't remember anything that happened before or after."

"Nothing at all?"

"It's all flashes of different pieces." Malcolm fingered one of his rooks. "Things that don't make any sense or form any sort of a connection."

Sorcha made a soft, speculative sound deep in her throat. The mind was deeply complex. Their brain a computer. Only instead of chips on which their memories were stored, their brains formed memories after a persistent set of changes in the connections between neurons occurred.

A traumatic event, no matter if it was physical or psychological, disrupted the memory of the triggering event, as well as memories from before or after the event occurred.

Things Malcolm already knew.

"You know more than I do about this stuff." Sorcha watched him move his knight to take her bishop and inwardly groaned. She should have anticipated that before she moved the piece. "You've studied memory more in depth than I have." She saw no reason to point out how he studied memory, trauma, and the brain like a madman. They joked about his obsessive tendencies all the time. Not that hers were any better. "All I will say is that it seems like whatever trauma you suffered has led to a form of dissociative amnesia. Your mind doesn't want to remember what happened because whatever it's clearly too much for you to handle."

"You sound like Gabrielle." Malcolm's expression was one of bemusement more than annoyance or exasperation. "She says the same thing when I bring up my memories and how there are huge gaps that make no sense."

"Well, she knows you and what happened better than I do."

"She doesn't know all of it, though."

"She knows what you've told her." Sorcha took one of his pawns. "You can't tell her what you don't know." He took her other knight with his. She sent him a dirty look. "Oh, you're gonna pay for that."

"You might have a chance at beating me if you don't move your queen."

"How did you... never mind." She moved her remaining rook and took another pawn. "I wasn't going to move my queen, anyway."

"Right." Malcolm ducked his head to conceal the smile that touched his lips. "Unfortunately, you left your king vulnerable."

"What?" Sorcha stared down at the board in disbelief. "Oh, son of a bitch."


	22. Chapter 22

A door slamming startled Sorcha awake. She blinked open her eyes to see early morning sunlight filtering through drapes a buttery shade of yellow. _Those aren't my drapes_, rolled through her mind as she lay there beneath the warm covers.

No, the drapes in her room were white with multicolored handprints all over them. _Mom yelled at us for an hour after she saw what we'd done. Then Dad pointed out how they were our handprints and wasn't it nice to have something to remind her of when we were small. _

Innocent.

Carefree.

Adventurous.

_Was Malcolm ever like that_? Sorcha pondered that as she turned onto her back and stared up at the cream colored ceiling. _Definitely not my room_, she decided, stifling a yawn with her hand. No, her ceiling and bedroom walls were painted to reflect the city of Gotham after dark.

It had been Sean's gift to her before his deployment to Afghanistan.

His way of saying that even when he was miles away, he'd still be there whenever she needed him.

Malcolm joked at Christmas how her room was nothing like he expected. Batman comics, Star Wars figurines, models of the Batmobile and Slave I were stuffed between books on serial killers, the Third Reich, and Stephen King.

_"I told you, I'm eclectic_."

Malcolm responded with a droll little, "_obviously_," while looking around in amusement. _No, not just humor, _she realized as she pushed herself up into a sitting position. True interest had been in his eyes as he wandered around and looked at everything.

Malcolm tended to like macabre things. As he called them, anyway. Sorcha didn't rightly understand why he felt his interests were so strange. Sean had a python and a boa. A tarantula she swore screwed with her because the damn thing she was afraid of it. Knives, swords. Books on medieval torture. War. Went through a few "experimental phases" as he called them in high school.

Dad called them part of his self-discovery.

She understood why Malcolm wanted to learn about serial killers. It helped him understand the father who saved people during the day and murdered then at night.

The father who hugged him, read to him, taught him how to ride a bike, who tortured and killed a minimum of twenty-three people.

_Dad suspects he tried to turn Malcolm into a killer. That he started grooming him at a young age. _

It made sense to Sorcha.

Malcolm's trauma came from somewhere.

The father claiming to love him trying to make him kill someone?

That definitely would traumatize a kid.

Especially one as kind, gentle, and compassionate as Malcolm.

Anger and hate burned beneath her skin. Bubbled in her belly. _If I could get five minutes alone with Martin Whitly, I'd_... she didn't finish that thought.

She wasn't honestly sure what she'd do if she ever found herself face-to-face with Malcolm's father. Sorcha liked to think of herself as a non-violent person. Her parents raised her, after-all, to solve her problems with words, not fists or weapons.

However, she couldn't deny a small part of her wouldn't like to serve Martin Whitly a cup of tea laced with arsenic. Rihanna blasting from down the hall scattered the images of the man writhing and gagging on the floor. Sorcha let out a sigh and wondered what disturbed the youngest Whitly this time.

"I'm sorry for Ains," she heard. "She doesn't always stop to think about those who might still be asleep when she has one of her tantrums."

"Mal?" Sorcha glanced around the room. "Where are you?"

"Floor."

_Of course_. Sorcha heaved a sigh and combed her fingers through her hair to straighten it before leaning over the side to look at him. Exhaustion ghosted his face. The black smudges beneath his red-rimmed eyes made his face seem more pale than usual. Her best friend was hurting but wouldn't admit it without some gentle nudging.

"Crawling into bed with me didn't occur to you any more than waking me, did it?"

"You needed your sleep."

"Mal." Sorcha rolled her eyes. "I've told you before that if you have a bad night to either wake me or crawl into bed with me. I won't mind."

"You worked a double shift yesterday and the day before."

"And?"

"And then you drove down here." Mal pushed himself into a sitting position. "Even though I told you that you didn't have too."

"I wanted to spend my days off with you." She swung her legs to the side of the bed. "I told you that."

"Still didn't have too."

_Clearly, this is not going to be one of his good days_. Malcolm tended to idle in neutral until something caused him to shift into either high or low gear. She preferred when he bounced off the walls and spouted obscure facts about history, science or whatever rather than seeing him curled in on himself and wishing he didn't exist. _Well, just have to tease him out of this mood_, she decided as she slid to the floor behind him.

"Wouldn't have gotten to cheat you at poker last night if I stayed home." When Mal didn't rise to her bait she knew something was definitely wrong. Sorcha curled an arm around him and rest her chin on his shoulder. "Wanna talk about it?"

"Nothing to talk about."

"I don't believe that. Now," she kept her tone light, inviting, "what is it?"

"It's nothing."

She rubbed his arm. "Talk to me, Mal. Please?"

He was silent for a number of moments. Finally, he sighed, then said, "I went to see my father yesterday."

"You went to see your... father?" Sorcha's eyebrows shot up to her hairline. "You visited him?"

He nodded. "Yes."

"Why?"

"Why?" Mal looked at her as if she suddenly sprouted tentacles. "He's my father..."

"I know that," she said with a roll of her eyes. "But..." she let her voice trail off. "No, you know what? Never mind. I get it. He's your father. Of course, you'd want to see him."

"You're angry."

"I'm not angry." She heard the bite in her voice and did her best to soften it. "I'm... concerned is all."

Because every time he went to see his father, this was how he was for days afterwards.

"I know what my father is," he said. "I just..."

"Don't understand how or why."

"Yes."

"Mal..." Sorcha folded her other arm around him. "You're never going to understand how or why."

"But..." His brow furrowed. "All the research..."

"Doesn't apply when it's _you_. Dad would be the first to tell you that. You can read all the research in the world you want. You can learn everything there is to know about the minds of serial killers. But..."

"When it comes to Martin Whitly it won't matter because I can't see beyond the fact that he's my father."

"Yes."

"I just want him to tell me the truth." The breath that shuddered out of him hurt her to hear. "Why won't he tell me the truth?"

"Because he can't." Sorcha held him tighter. "He just can't."


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was partially inspired (the boardwalk element specifically) by the song, ‘Anything But Mine’ by Kenny Chesney

"How does she get him to do it?"

Gil murmured the question as he watched the two slowly swaying to the song the local band was playing. Wasn't his type of music, he preferred old-school rock, himself, but he endured it because of the contentment on Bright's face.

He had never seen the kid look so peaceful, so at ease, so comfortable in his own skin. As if he forgot, for that moment, all the problems that normally plagued him,and allowed himself the pleasure of being a normal nineteen year old enjoying a hot summer night at the boardwalk.

"How does she do what?" Jackie leaned back against him. "Get him to stay still?"

"How does she get him to let go of all the things that normally bother him and enjoy things like a concert at the beach?" He folded his arms around her and rest his chin on top of her head. "Does she know some secret method for dealing with Bright that we don't?"

Jackie hummed a soft laugh. "She's a girl, Gil."

"You're a girl."

"Glad you've noticed."

He chuckled at her wry tone. "My point is that you struggle with getting him to agree to do things like this."

"Sorcha's a _nineteen_ year old girl."

"Is that her secret?"

She elbowed him gently in the side. "Didn't you do things at nineteen because of a girl?"

"I did lots of things at nineteen because of a girl."

Many he ended up later regretting. It was all part of growing up. Learning to make mistakes and growing from them. He didn't have all the problems Bright did, though. Hadn't endured all he had. The bullying and teasing from his classmates, extreme social isolation, and the biggest one of all: having a serial killer for a father.

"Then you can figure out how she's gotten Malcolm to do things that we can't get him to do."

"Like agree to spend the weekend at Ocean City."

_Not only agree_, he realized as the delighted cries from those on the rides mixed with the pinball bells, and the calls from the carnies. _Actually enjoy himself, as well_.

Gil had his doubts when Jackie told him they were going to spend the weekend with the two in Ocean City. _The only way Jessica would agree to let Bright go_, she told him while handing him a suitcase.

He figured it wouldn't matter if he agreed to chaperone or not.

Bright hated the beach and carnivals.

And he hated the food typically served at boardwalks and carnivals.

He assumed the kid would balk at the idea and put an end to things.

He'd have been wrong.

Sorcha figured out how to get around all of the kid's complaints and protests. She and Jackie prepared foods that wouldn't upset his stomach and they planned out things to do so that everyone got to do something they wanted.

Turning the weekend into the sort of family vacation he and Jackie tried to take the kid on when he was younger.

Still, he couldn't help the worry sloshing around in his belly with the three beers he allowed himself as a treat. Bright didn't have the greatest history with relationships.

The last one, especially.

Gil suspected there had been serious physical and mental abuse going on throughout the three-month relationship.

Not that Bright would tell him the truth any of the times he asked him about the odd bruises and cuts on his body. A reminder he shared with Jackie as the band started to play another song.

"The last girl Bright dated did a real number on him."

"Sorcha isn't like Denise."

_No, she definitely isn't like Denise Lewis_, he silently agreed as he watched the kid bury his face in her hair. The only time Sorcha Corbin struck out at anyone had been in defense of Bright.

"If she turned out like her," he said as cheers erupted from the crowd, "I'd have gotten a restraining order to keep her away from him."

"And I'd have agreed with you about it."

"You like her, though." He tightened his arms around her. "Admit it."

"I do like her." Jackie slid her hands atop his. "She doesn't care his father is The Surgeon. Doesn't care he is rich. Doesn't see him as he sees himself."

"She argues with him about it."

Gil's lips tilted up as he recalled one long drive where the two went back and forth about his being broken. Bright gave up in the end because Sorcha outright refused to accept his reasons for why he couldn't be fixed.

"That's why she's good for him," Jackie said. "Sorcha doesn't allow Malcolm to run himself down. She helps him find healthier ways to deal with his anxiety and depression. Makes sure he eats and sleeps." She nodded towards where the two were slowly strolling away from the stage, hand in hand. "She makes sure he has fun."

"She can't make all the moves, though." A warm breeze cruised over the boardwalk, stinging the summer and salt water clinging to his skin. He counted the pain worth the happiness that had been on Bright's face all weekend. It was so rare and all the more precious for it. "Bright has to make them, too."

"Why do you think they keep sneaking off when you aren't looking?"

A chuckle burst from Gil as he caught her meaning. "Some detective I am."

She sent him a teasing smirk.

"You've just forgotten what it's like being nineteen and in love."

Gil's brow knit. "Do you think he even _knows_ he's in love?"

"Did you at nineteen?"

"No." Gil pressed a kiss to her forehead. "But that's because I hadn't met you."

"Good answer."

"Marriage has made me a wise and prudent man."

"Well, wise and prudent man, do you want to pretend we're nineteen again and sneak off like them?"

Quiet suggestion hummed in her throat and burned in his blood. Much like it did whenever she spoke in that sultry tone.

"I know just the spot."

"Well..." Amusement danced in the eyes she lifted to his. "What're we doing standing here then?"

A rocket burst overhead as Gil led Jackie in the opposite direction the kids had gone.

He _could_ remember being nineteen, after all.

And what he remembered most was how the last thing he'd have wanted was his parents hanging around while he was trying to have some alone time with his girlfriend.


	24. Chapter 24

They walked along the edge of the water, close enough the surf could swoosh over their feet, yet, far enough away it didn't require Malcolm to do more than roll his pant legs to his calves.

"This has been a great weekend," Sorcha said as she slid her fingers between his. "Help us when we find ourselves bogged down by papers, exams and projects."

"You ready to go back to school?"

"Let's say I'm more confident this year about going than I was last year."

"You weren't confident last year?"

She shook her head. "Not at all."

"Didn't seem like it."

"I'm better at hiding my anxiety." Her smile was wry. "Don't have a psychogenic tremor to give me away."

Malcolm hummed a laugh. "You have other tells."

"I do?" Intrigued, Sorcha stopped walking. "Like what?"

"You tend to fidget when you're nervous."

"Ants in the pants."

Malcolm looked at her, one brow tilted.

"What?"

Sorcha shrugged.

"That's what Dad calls it."

A small smile curved his lips. "I always think of you as being like the _Stellula calliope_."

"A hummingbird?" Pleasure warmed her blood at his comparing her to such a lovely bird. "You really think I'm like a hummingbird?"

"Yes." Malcolm ducked his head. As he often did when it came to anything concerning his inner thoughts and feelings. "I do."

"Mal." Because she wanted him to look at her, she cupped his chin, gently lifted it. "That's the sweetest thing anyone has said to me."

Raw, naked vulnerability shimmered in the eyes that met hers. "Really?"

"I dated the same guy all through high school and he never said anything like that to me."

"He should have."

She didn't disagree with him. Hindsight, though, was twenty-twenty. Looking back, Sorcha could see all the mistakes she made, the things she'd do over if given a second chance, and the decisions she'd change.

She couldn't live her life in reverse, though. Not when the way forward included Malcolm. _He's my future_. She decided that on their first day of classes. If that future included marriage or children was too early to tell. She was no more ready for those things than he was.

To the consternation of her well-meaning aunts.

"I should have ended things with Caleb before I did because it wasn't a healthy relationship."

Something they had in common.

Not that Malcolm talked much about his past relationships.

_No shock there_, she mused as a rocket burst overhead. He tended to dole out information in small doses, testing her reaction before giving her more. It was a defense mechanism, a way of protecting himself from either rejection or attack.

She got a pretty good idea how unhealthy his last relationship was from something Jackie told her.

"_He started wearing long-sleeve shirts after he started seeing Denise_."

Didn't take much to figure out why he started covering up.

Anger pulsed beneath her skin as she pictured all the bruises and cuts those sleeves concealed.

The burns and welts.

Those wounds might have healed but the scars remained. As did the traces of the cruel words said.

Nobody would abuse him again.

Not physically.

Not emotionally.

Woe betide anyone who dared.

For now, though, she focused on Malcolm.

On helping him to heal.

Finding his worth.

Showing him that he mattered.

Teaching him how to have healthy relationships with people.

_Washing away the blood his father spilled and which he believes covers his hands. _

"Your dad said your last boyfriend hurt you."

"Not physically, no." She ran her hands up the back of his arms, linked them behind his neck. "Other ways, yes."

A muscle tickled in his jaw. The only display of anger he allowed himself.

Because he didn't trust himself to get angry.

Because explosive bouts of rage was associated with Martin Whitly.

And Malcolm Bright rejected anything that linked him to his father.

"Hey," she said, pressing close. "Let's take a swim."

"Not wearing your bathing suit."

"I have on underwear."

A smile hovered about his mouth.

"Gil would be forced to arrest you."

"Gil," she said as she stroked the back of his neck, "is currently occupied."

Malcolm glanced back over his shoulder.

"Where did he and Jackie go?" he wondered as he looked back at her. "Do you know?"

"They went some place to remember when they were nineteen."

"You don't mean...?"

"Yes, yes, I do."

That smile turned into a grin.

"Did you and Jackie plan this while Gil and I were winning you those stuffed unicorns you just couldn't leave here without?"

"Do you mean did we plan how to get you and Gil alone with us?" Her lips curved into a small, smug smile. "Yes, yes we did."

"And you're not sorry, are you?"

"Not one damn bit."


	25. Chapter 25

"Why aren't you afraid of me?"

Of course, Malcolm, being Malcolm, waited until she was about to drift off to ask her such an imperative — in his mind, anyway — question. Sorcha turned onto her side so she could look at him.

Not that Malcolm was staring at her. No, his gaze was on the ceiling. It didn't take much to figure out why he was fixated on this particular question. They had been having dinner with the Arroyo's at a local restaurant that evening when a man about hers and Malcolm's age walked up and sneered, "_Don't you know he's the son of a killer_?" at them. "_Probably helped his old man kill all those people_."

Gil shot out of his seat like a rocket, his face a mask of rage at Mal being insulted so openly, and his hands curled around the napkin that had been in his lap.

"_I think you need to walk away_," he told the younger man in short, clipped tones. "_Now_."

The guy simply turned dark, predatory eyes to Gil's. "_And what will happen if I don't_?"

"_I will escort you to the door personally_."

A tense stare-down followed. Finally, an older man came over and took the younger one by the arm.

"_Let's go, Henry_."

They walked away but not before the younger man got one final shot in.

"_People should be terrified to be around you._"

Clearly, those words left an impression on him. As that jerk intended when he said them. Sorcha heaved a soft sigh and scooted closer to rest her head on Malcolm's shoulder.

"Mal..."

"Why aren't you afraid of me?"

"Because I have no reason to be afraid of you."

"You should."

"I'm honestly more terrified of failing all my finals than I am of you."

His brow furrowed. "I can hur..."

"Nope."

"I tackled you the other night."

"No, you ran into me," she corrected. "Big difference."

"I still hurt you."

"Don't flatter yourself." Sorcha pushed herself up onto one elbow so she could look him in the eyes. "I've gotten tackled harder by Sean and his friends during flag football."

"You play flag football with Sean and his friends?"

The surprise in his voice made her smile.

"Hey, I'm not a girlie girl here," she teased. "I play as hard as the boys do."

He rolled his eyes. "I know you aren't a girlie girl."

"Then you should know that you running into me was nothing."

"I wasn't in control. I could have lashed out."

"Which is why I pinned your arms and held you down until you woke up."

A shadow swept over his face. He was frustrated, hurt, and angry. All normal responses to the incident from earlier. Only, Malcolm didn't trust himself to express his emotions the same way other people did. He feared turning into his father if he let himself be angry.

So, he repressed his emotions until something set him off. Then he'd react with a quick, explosive outburst. She had only seen him react with violence once and that was after Tyler McKoy wouldn't take no for an answer. Even then, Malcolm only slammed him against the wall and told him in no uncertain terms, "_No means no_."

"It's okay to get angry."

"I know it is."

"So, get angry."

"No."

Short, simple, final. Sorcha twisted so she could straddle his legs. Surprise erased the darker emotions of a few moments ago. _Good_, she decided as she folded her arms across her chest. _He's easier to deal with when he isn't being moody or stubborn_.

"Why not?"

"Why not what?"

"Why can't you get angry about what that asshole said? Gil did. Jackie did. I sure am. And I'm not afraid to say so. Why can't you?"

"What good is there in being angry?"

He didn't growl it. No, he just sounded exhausted. Tired of it, and, she suspected, himself most of all.

"It's healthy to get angry," she said. "Anger inward is a volcano waiting to erupt. Anger outward is a volcano that has erupted."

"You just answered your question about why I don't get angry." The tips of his fingers touched her knees. Just a brush of skin against skin. The most he allowed himself because he didn't believe he deserved more. "I don't want to be a volcano that has erupted."

"You're more dangerous as a volcano waiting to erupt."

"Only to myself."

"And that's harmful to others."

His brow furrowed. "How? I'm only hurting me."

"You just answered your own question."

He made a face at her. "Don't parrot my words back at me."

"If the shoe fits, buddy boy."

Malcolm let out a small sigh. "I see you're in a mood."

"What happens when my best friend wakes me by asking me why I'm not afraid of him."

"You should be afraid of me. I'm dangerous."

"Bullshit." _Now,_ she was angry. And she wasn't afraid to show it. "That's bullshit, Malcolm. You've given me no reason to be afraid of you. Afraid for you, yes. Of you? Never. Have I made myself clear?"

Malcolm's face filled with a mixture of wonder and curiosity. As if her being angry with him was a new and fascinating puzzle. _To him it likely is_, she realized.

"You're angry with me." He seemed so awed that she almost smiled. _Almost_. "You're really angry at me."

"Yes, I am," she said. "And have I lashed out at you with hateful, ugly words? Hit you with my fists? Threatened to hurt you or someone you loved?"

"No."

"Exactly." She leaned down until they were nose to nose. "So, are you angry about what that dick said?"

"I'm always angry, Sorch." His tremor rattled his fingers hard enough that they bounced against her knees. "That's the thing."

"Then let's do something about it."

"Like what?"

"Boxing," she announced as she stretched out atop him. "We'll take up boxing."

"Boxing?" She felt more than saw the dubious look he sent her. "You think boxing will help me with my anger?"

"Put on gloves, hit a bag as hard as you like." She stifled a yawn as she tucked her head under his chin. "Seems like a good idea to me."

"Are you going to sleep on top of me?"

"That's my plan, yes."

"Why?"

"To show you how _not_ afraid of you I am."

"Sorch," Malcolm groaned. "You're being ridiculous."

"Our first class starts at eight." Sorcha closed her eyes. "Might want to try and sleep before then."


	26. Chapter 26

Malcolm tossed his cellphone at the same moment she opened their apartment door. It sailed by her, down the stairs, and smashed on the concrete. One eyebrow arched as she glanced at the now busted phone and then at the man vibrating in the middle of the living room.

Anger stained Mal's cheeks and burned in the eyes that met hers. She opened her mouth to ask what was wrong but he fisted his fingers in his hair as he crumbled to his knees with a small, distressed sound. Worried now, Sorcha dropped her book bag and crouched down beside him.

"Mal? What is it? What's wrong?"

He didn't answer. Just rocked back and forth, breathing erratically, and making soft, gasping sounds. Sorcha went to set a hand on his shoulder but he flinched away.

"Mal?" She kept her tone soft, cajoling. "What's wrong?"

It took several more minutes of gentle coaxing and humming before he finally calmed down enough to tell her, "My father called me."

Sorcha's belly clenched. Anytime Martin Whitly had contact with Malcolm resulted in him regressing back to destructive behaviors.

"Okay? What did he want?"

_Why does the man even have phone privileges_? she demanded silently. How he even got Malcolm's phone number in the first place made no sense to her.

Sorcha swallowed back her acrimonious feelings along with a sigh. Martin Whitly was a subject she and Malcolm didn't discuss because they didn't agree on it.

She understood his reasons for continuing to see his father. For speaking to him.

Much as she wanted to forget, Martin Whitly was still Malcolm's father. His memories of his father conflicted with the man who murdered twenty-three people.

Sorcha didn't need her degree to know the majority of Malcolm's problems all revolved around his father and what he had done.

To his son and to the people whose lives he stole.

She couldn't help but feel he'd be better off if he severed his relationship with his father.

Not that she told Mal that.

Much as she thought it'd be healthier for him to have nothing to do with Martin Whitly, she also recognized that he needed that connection. Malcolm's identity was tied to his father's. The phrase, "_We're the same_," was so deeply engrained in his brain he couldn't see himself beyond it.

Not yet, anyway.

There was still time, in her mind, for Malcolm to develop his own identity. To detach himself from his father. _Only when he's ready, though_, she thought as Malcolm sunk against her.

And the one thing he wasn't was ready.

"He's disappointed I didn't see him while on break."

Sorcha bit back the first thing she wanted to say.

"Did you think to mention that you spent most of the summer recovering from the injuries you obtained during that brutal assault?"

"Didn't matter." He let out a sigh as he nuzzled his face into the curve of her neck. "He expects me to see him this weekend."

"No."

The word left her mouth before she could stop it. _Dammit all, though_, she fumed as Malcolm stiffened against her. _Who does Martin Whitly think he is? Snapping his fingers and commanding Malcolm come at his beck and call. As if he's a dog! _

"Sorch—"

"You don't come home happy from these visits, Malcolm." She folded her arms around him, held him tight. "Your moods spiral, you quit eating, you don't sleep, when you do sleep the night terrors are worse..." She slid her fingers into his hair, massaged his scalp. "See him at Christmas if you really have to see him but not right now. Not when we just started the semester and can't afford to miss a day of classes. Please?"

She expected Malcolm to balk. To argue. To outright refuse. He surprised her when he curled his arms around her and said, "Okay," against her throat.


	27. Chapter 27

She hated having to do it. It was after three in the morning and she knew Gil worked late because of his current case. _There isn't any other choice though_, she told herself as she pushed the call button. _Not when Malcolm is being his usual obstinate self and refusing to let me take him to the hospital. _

Sorcha chewed her lower lip as she listened to it ring. After the second ring she heard a gruff, "_Arroyo_."

"Gil..."

The use of his name worked faster than a jolt of caffeine. Sorcha heard Jackie asking what was going on in the background but he hushed her with a few whispered words. "_What happened? Are you and Bright okay_?"

"Yes, we're fine," she quickly assured him. "We made it home before the storm got real bad."

"_But_?"

"Gil, I don't know what's wrong." The words came tumbling out, almost tripping over themselves in their hurry to leave her mouth. "Everything was fine after we got here. He took a shower. We watched movies. Fell asleep—"

"_Sorcha_." Gil spoke her name in that same tone her father used when he wanted her to calm down and tell him what was wrong. "_What's wrong_?"

"Malcolm's burning up with fever."

_And that's putting it mildly_, she thought as she glanced towards the figure curled up in a ball beside her. Sweat glued his hair to his face and neck, soaked through the top he wouldn't let her remove when she tried.

"_How high_?" This came from Jackie as she took the phone from Gil. "_What other symptoms is he having_?"

"Well, he's complained about his stomach hurting him but we figured it was stress and his meds bothering him like usual."

"_Did he eat something that disagreed with him?_"

"No." Sorcha wondered that herself after he crawled in bed with her. "We had won ton soup for dinner. I made it myself. All fresh ingredients. Him more broth than anything else because of his stomach complaints."

"_Has he been vomiting_?"

"Not that I'm aware of."

"_Chills_?"

"Yes." Despite having his own private summer, Mal had also complained about feeling like a block of ice. "And he's complained his belly is tender around his belly button."

"_We'll be right there_." Jackie's tone was matter-of-fact, alarming Sorcha all the more. "_I'll call Jessica at the hotel she and Ainsley are staying at_ _and let her know we're taking him to the hospital_."

"Jackie, what is it? What's wrong with Malcolm?"

"_He could have appendicitis, sweetie_."

"Appendicitis?" She stroked a hand over Malcolm's sweaty forehead. "Are you sure?"

Why hadn't she thought of that? Stupid of her not to, really.

"_We won't be sure until we get him to the hospital_," Jackie said, "_but it definitely sounds like it_."

Guilt settled like a lead ball in her belly. She was supposed to watch out for Malcolm. Take care of him. Make sure he ate, slept, took his meds.

When he needed her to see he was in distress, she failed.

She let him, Jessica, Gil and Jackie down.

"I'm sorry," she whispered to the man shivering beside her and the woman on the phone. "I should have been paying better attention and I wasn't."

"_You couldn't have predicted Malcolm developing appendicitis. It just happens_."

"I should have recognized the symptoms."

Her mother was a nurse for chrissakes! "I should have..."

"_Calm down, sweetie_," Jackie soothed. "_It's going to be okay. Malcolm will be fine. Gil and I are on our way. Okay_?"

"Okay."

Sorcha curled around Malcolm after Jackie hung up, singing softly to him, and stroking his damp hair from his face in an attempt to keep him, and herself, calm.


	28. Chapter 28

Jackie's heart melted as Gil slid down the wall to sit beside the girl sitting there with her shoulders bowed, knees pulled into her chest, and face buried against her arms.

One large hand went to the back of her neck.

Same as it did Malcolm's whenever they found him in a similar state.

Those calloused fingers would gently squeeze, offering silent comfort, and much needed support.

Not for the first time, and Jackie knew it wouldn't be the last, she found herself thinking about what an amazing father her husband would be.

_That he already is_, she realized as Sorcha slowly raised her head to look at him with swollen, red-rimmed eyes.

"Come here, kiddo."

He didn't have to ask twice. A smile curved her lips as Sorcha twisted to pillow her head on Gil's chest. They hadn't been blessed with children of their own but that didn't make them childless. _We are parents_, she realized as Gil's eyes met hers. _We have the pleasure of sharing two unique children with their biological parents_.

It wasn't a situation she regretted being in or ever doubted.

Gil never had to ask her if she was okay with his bringing Malcolm into their home, their family.

Nor had she ever given him any doubt about how okay with it she was.

Malcolm became hers the moment those wounded eyes peeked at her from between the strands of his glossy hair.

A lonely, sad, and deeply haunted boy desperately in need of love and affection.

Comfort and support.

Safety and security.

Things she and Gil could, and did, happily give him.

Slowly, Malcolm crawled out of his shell. His rampant curiosity, unlimited enthusiasm, and burning desire to learn anything that caught his fancy enriched their lives in ways neither she or Gil could ever have expected.

More than that, Malcolm also helped fill the void left inside her each time a pregnancy test came back negative.

He was her bright-boy.

Her ray of sunshine.

He brought more brightness into their lives when he met Sorcha.

Jackie had secretly hoped he'd meet a nice girl at Harvard. One who'd help him with his feelings of self-worth. Show him he deserved happiness. Teach him what a healthy relationship was.

More than anything she wanted Malcolm to fall in love.

Marry.

Have the children she wasn't able to have.

_He's found the girl_. _He just hasn't figured out he's in love with her_.

He would, though.

Their bright-boy was a smart boy.

A good boy.

Nothing like the man sitting in a cushiony cell at Claremont Psychiatric, unrepentant about killing twenty-three people, and uncaring how his actions left his son so traumatized he could barely function some days.

_We're breaking Martin Whitly's hold on Malcolm_. Sorcha started it when she got him to agree to not go see his father. It was now up to the rest of them to help convince him to cut his father out of his life completely.

Jackie turned when a throat cleared behind her. Exhaustion lined Doctor Wilson's craggy face but his eyes were cool, calm, confident.

"He's in recovery." A tired smile creased the man's lips. "I must tell you he's a lucky young man. If you waited any longer that appendix might have burst and caused us some more serious problems."

"Is my mom with him?" Sorcha asked as she and Gil joined them. "He wanted her there with him when he came out of surgery. He was clear about that before you took him to surgery."

"Erin's with him, kiddo," Doctor Wilson assured her with a smile. "She stayed with him through the surgery and went with him to recovery just as promised."

Sorcha sagged against Gil with a small nod. "Thank you, Doctor Wilson."

"Come on," he said, indicating for them to follow. "I'll take you back so you can see him."

It wasn't like he had to ask twice.

As they followed Doctor Wilson, Jackie couldn't help but think how odd they must seem to people. Them out here comforting Sorcha while her mother was back caring for Malcolm.

An odd little family she heard one nurse remark. They were. She admitted it. They were an odd little family.

_And the boy unconscious in a hospital bed is who brought us all together_.

Made them a family.

Jackie took Gil's hand as Sorcha quickly moved to where her mother stood beside Malcolm's bed.

"Mom…"

"He's alright, honey." Erin Corbin put an arm around her daughter before smiling at Jackie and then Gil. "Our bright-boy's alright."

_And he always will be_, Jackie thought as she went around the bed to take hold of Malcolm's other hand. _Because we'll always make sure he is_. _That we all are_.

Because they were a family.

An odd little family.

But still a family.

And that was alright with her.


	29. Chapter 29

"Serving orange jello should be made a crime punishable by a minimum of one year in jail."

"It's just jello, Mal."

"It doesn't count as jello." Mal glared at the offensive cup of orange colored gelatin. "It's orange-colored gelatin. Flavorless, orange-colored gelatin."

Sorcha shook her head and reached over to take the offensive cup of gelatin away from him.

"Good thing my mom stopped at the store to get you the right flavored jello before coming in this morning."

"Your mom stopped to get me jello?" Excitement shined in the eyes Malcolm turned on her. "What flavor?"

Sorcha sent him a slow, easy smile.

"Peach."

He glowered at her. "Not funny."

Sorcha chuckled softly and reached over to pat his knee.

"She would only get your favorite, Mal, you know that."

His face brightened at that. "When is she going to bring it?"

"On her break." She placed the cup of offensive jello on his bed tray before pushing it away. "Which is in ten minutes."

"I can wait that long." The ends of his lips curved into the first real smile she'd seen in over a week. "For real jello."

Sorcha again shook her head, amused despite the exhaustion hanging heavy on her.

"Just when I think I have all your ticks figured out," she joked, "you come up with another one."

"I'm an acquired taste, remember?"

"No shit, Sherlock." She stifled a yawn with her hand. "Sorry."

"You look exhausted."

Sorcha aimed a look at him. "Gee," she drawled. "Can't imagine why that might be."

"You didn't have to stay awake." Mal's tone was as dry as hers had been. "Your mom, Jackie, and my mother have all taken turns watching over me."

"Sleep issues." She perched on the edge of his bed. "Got them from my pain in the ass best friend."

"You definitely don't need to pick up my bad habits."

"Well, I haven't acquired a taste for Twizzlers," she lightly teased. "So, I think we're good."

"Gil wouldn't bring me any when I asked." Malcolm pouted playfully. "Neither would Jackie."

"Because you need to eat soft foods since you just couldn't have appendicitis, oh, no." Sorcha huffed dramatically. "No, you had to go and develop tonsillitis and then an infection on top of it."

Malcolm hummed a soft laugh that turned into a soft groan.

"Don't you know you come to the hospital to get sick?"

"Well, try and stop getting sick, please. I don't think my nerves can handle you developing anything else."

Instantly contrite, Malcolm said, "I'm sorry." He slid his fingers towards her. Almoat touching hers, but not quite. Mostly because he was still unsure if it was okay despite her repeated assurances it was. "I don't know how you put up with me."

"I don't put up with you." She leaned over to place a kiss to his forehead. "I love you."

Wonder and awe filled Malcolm's face at her quiet confession. As if the concept of her loving him had never once occurred to him. _Likely hadn't_, she groused as he continued to stare at her, mouth hanging slightly agape.

It was another reminder of how little of life Malcolm experienced after his father's arrest. His inexperience with relationships, his inability to read social cues and respond to them, his awkwardness in social situations all could be blamed on Martin Whitly.

As could the fact that Malcolm didn't know who Malcolm was because Martin Whitly fractured his identity at a young age. Turned Malcolm into a near perfect mirror image of himself.

With one difference.

Malcolm was not a killer.

He couldn't hurt anyone intentionally. It wasn't in him to cause others pain. The times he did sent him spiraling down a dark path of self-loathing and self-harm.

Even that could be blamed on Martin Whitly. His actions created a schism in Malcolm's psychosocial development. A chasm full of isolation, inferiority complexes, trust and identity issues mixed with the guilt of what his father had done to his victims.

Malcolm craved intimacy. He desperately wanted to love and be loved in return. He just didn't know how to reach out and ask for those things. _Largely because he struggles with accepting he deserves those things_.

"You love me?" A tentative smile played about his mouth. "Really?"

"Yes, I do." She tucked the blanket around him. "Even though you drive me batshit crazy."

"You were batshit crazy before you met me, Sorch."

"Touché." Sorcha pillowed her head on his chest. "Let's find something on the tv to pass the time until my mom brings you the right flavored jello."

"Alright."


	30. Chapter 30

_It must be some form of magic_, Gil mused as he carried two mugs of tea into the living room. There was simply no other explanation for how she could get the kid to do what the rest of them barely could.

"You use some form of magic." He lightly teased as he handed her one of the mugs. "Don't you?"

"To do what?" Sorcha queried as she took the mug with a grateful smile.

Gil nodded to the kid with his head in her lap.

"Get him to sleep."

"Well, I can't take all the credit for his passing out here." Her lips twitched. "It took a combination of bribery, manipulation, and his medication to finally accomplish it."

Gil hummed a laugh as he took a seat in his armchair.

"He's sleeping is all that matters."

Sorcha ran a hand over the kid's glossy hair. "He hasn't been sleeping since he got out of the hospital." A frown creased her brow. "He's stressed about next semester for some reason."

"Any idea why?"

"No." She shook her head. "He refuses to tell me."

Gil considered that as he sipped at his tea. One idea leapt out at him based on a conversation he had with the kid earlier that day.

"How many classes do you have together next semester?"

"One." She glanced at him. "We've got personality theory together." Sorcha went to lift her mug but stopped. "Wait, do you think us not having classes together is what is stressing him out?"

Gil took another sip of tea and shrugged.

"You two have pretty much had the same schedule since you started at Harvard."

_With the exception of a few classes here and there_, he amended as her gaze dropped to the man sleeping, blissfully unaware of their conversation. They both were majoring in psychology but Sorcha chose to add English with an emphasis on creative writing and analysis while Bright was drifting into forensic science with a foray into criminology.

Ambitious?

Nobody could deny that.

No more than any of them could deny how proud they were of them for chasing their education goals.

"Mal helped me plan my classes..." Sorcha lifted her gaze back to Gil's. "He's the one that suggested I take creative writing this semester so I could apply to the upper division writing program in fall."

"You know as well as I that Bright doesn't handle changes in routine well."

_Or openly admit when he needs or wants something._

The kid didn't have a selfish bone in his body. He always put others ahead of himself. Something they all routinely chastised him for.

_Especially her._

"No," Sorcha agreed with a small sigh. "And rather than admit how anxious being on his own is making him, he's burying his feelings, and pretending everything's fine. So typical of him."

Gil's lips curled around the rim of the mug he lifted to his lips.

"What are you going to do?"

"I'll change a few of my classes." Bright fidgeted so she took a moment to quiet him before continuing. "I'll move my english and comparative literature classes to fall and take criminology and his other psychology class with him."

That was the answer Gil expected.

And there'd be no changing her mind, he knew.

There hadn't been the handful of other times he tried to tell her she couldn't give up what she wanted or needed to do because it made Bright unhappy.

The only thing he could do was remind himself they were heading in the same direction. Working towards the same goal.

It didn't matter in the end how they got there.

Long as they got there.

He only hoped they'd get there together.


	31. Chapter 31

Sorcha meant to go to class that morning.

She really did.

She just... couldn't.

Not when flurries of snow pelted the window and the wind howled like a banshee.

_Definitely a snow day._

Sorcha smiled as she tugged the heavy quilt she dug out of the closet when the temperatures fell over her and the figure asleep beside her.

That Malcolm continued to sleep with the wind shrieking like it was surprised her. The last few nights had been especially brutal sleep-wise. His night terrors had come with an alarming frequency. What triggered them, she didn't know.

All she could do was what she always did when the darkness came to try and claim him: she beat it back with the light.

Some nights were worse than others, though.

The demons more vicious and demanding.

Their grip on Malcolm tighter than the strings on the guitar she bought to replace the one that broke.

She didn't let go.

No, she held onto Malcolm a little tighter. Fought just a bit harder.

Because Malcolm Bright was worth it.

Even if _he_ didn't think so.

Sorcha turned on her side so she could study his sleeping profile. Them long sable lashes he had been blessed with hid those mesmeric eyes from her.

Malcolm looked so innocent when asleep. Free of worry and care.

When he was awake, though, it was a serious face. One, she realized as the hand atop his chest jerked, she'd come to adore. She'd remember his face forever, just as she'd remember the sound of his voice, the feel of his lips against hers.

She especially liked when he first awoke.

He wasn't so moody then.

Was more prone to teasing.

Open to suggestions.

And she definitely had a few things in mind they could do to occupy themselves while the world outside was a wintry hell.

"You hid my shaving kit again," Malcolm murmured without opening his eyes. "Didn't you?"

_Should have known he was awake_, she realized, lips quirking.

"Maaaaybe."

"You did." He cracked open an eye to look at her. "I can tell by that smug tone."

"Not gonna find it this time, either," she playfully taunted. "I've hid it where you can't get to it."

_Not without braving the storm, _she added silently.

Malcolm heaved a sigh

"I haven't shaved in three days."

"Yeah, and this is a problem, why?"

"I'm growing a beard."

"Again..." she teased. "This is a problem why?"

"If my mother sees me unshaven..."

"I'll tell her that since I'm the one sleeping with you that I get the larger vote on you going unshaven or not."

He smiled at her. "You wouldn't dare tell her that."

"I would in a heartbeat and you know it."

"I'm fine with her not knowing, thank you."

"One normal thing you do..."

Malcolm breathed out a laugh as he stretched. Sorcha took that as an invitation to snuggle a little closer. His arm curling around her, proving her right.

Sorcha pillowed her head on his chest before reaching over to thumb open the lock on his wrist restraint. She had only conceded to their use after one particularly violent episode. Even then she only agreed because Malcolm almost had a complete meltdown about it.

"I think you look delectable with a beard and goatee," she said as she pushed the cuff to the floor. The other one she left in place. It, she decided, could prove useful later. "Less innocent high schooler and more edgy college student."

"I look like my father."

The way he said it, that small, verbal explosion, triggered memories of other times he made similar comments. He never saw himself as himself. Only as Martin Whitly.

The internal war of Malcolm Bright.

Who was he if he wasn't his father's son?

A question she kept trying to help him answer.

"You're not him, though, Mal." She angled her head to look at him. "You're you."

"I'm his son. We're the—"

"No, you're not." She slid atop him so he couldn't escape like he had last time they had this particular discussion. "You're not the same at all."

_And that_, she decided as he stared up at her, _is final_.

Well, in her mind, it was.

In Malcolm's?

It was far from being so.

"Sorch." Malcolm sat up so they were eye-to-eye. "I am like him. I can't deny that."

"Have you ever stopped to think that you're just like your mom? That all those things you think came from your dad actually came from her?"

"But." His brow creased. "He..."

"Manipulates and lies."

"I know he does."

The sea of hurt in those eyes caused her heart to throb. She hated doing this to him. Hated she had to do this to him. Someone had too, though.

"Martin Whitly has convinced you that you and he are mirror images and you're not. You're not." Sorcha framed his face with her hands. "You're not him. You merely share traits with him. Same as you do your mother."

"Who am I then, Sorch?" The raw, naked vulnerability etched onto Malcolm's face cut her heart into a billion pieces. "Who am I if I'm not him?"

"You're you, Mal." Sorcha rest her forehead to his. "You're you."


	32. Chapter 32

The living room looked like a tornado hit it.

A five foot seven one, in fact.

Sorcha took in the destruction as she closed the door behind her. Books had been thrown all around the room, papers shredded and tossed like confetti, even the pillows on the couch hadn't been safe from Hurricane Malcolm.

Why exactly he had torn through the apartment while she was in class was a mystery.

Not that she didn't have one particular guess as to what, no, _who_, fueled this destructive rage.

"Mal?" she called as she stepped over and around the mountain of debris. "Mal, are you here?"

There was no forthcoming answer from her human tornado.

_That's not good_.

Worry clawed through her belly as Sorcha crossed over into the kitchen. It, too, had met a similar fate as the living room. Sorcha winced at seeing their breakfast dishes smashed on the floor, the pots flung around, and utensils scattered willy-nilly.

Only one person in Malcolm's life could cause him to flip out like this.

A man she wished the devil would come take to hell.

Sorcha dropped her messenger bag off on the empty counter with a sigh before heading towards the bedroom. What disaster she'd find there, she didn't know. She steeled herself for the worst as she reached for the doorknob.

"Mal?"

The bedroom hadn't been hit as hard as the rest of the apartment. _Lost steam_, she decided as she pushed open the door and stepped into the room. The covers had been ripped from the bed and everything on the nightstand had ended up on the floor but he'd thankfully left the bookshelf alone.

Course, that was because Malcolm was sitting in front of it, knees drawn into his chest, arms wrapped around them, and banging his head against it while panting softly. Sorcha didn't say a word. She just walked over and sat on the floor beside him.

"Hey." She set a hand on the back of his neck. Lightly rubbed the tense muscles. "Wanna tell me what's going on?"

Malcolm didn't say a word.

He didn't stop banging his head.

Sorcha slid an arm around his shoulders. "It's okay," she told him softly as his breath became a wheeze that hurt to hear. "Just breathe. In, out. Let the air fill your lungs. Release slowly. Repeat until the bands ease."

It was a mantra she'd repeat for the next several hours.

While debating hiring a contract killer to kill sneak into Claremont Psychiatric to kill Martin Whitly.


	33. Chapter 33

The soft, "_oof_," was the only clue she needed to know that her danger prone dumb ass was doing something he shouldn't be.

At four forty-five in the morning she found after a glance at the alarm clock still on the floor from where Malcolm knocked it during his destruction of their apartment the day before.

With a groan, a couple of grumbles, and a few ideas for how to add to his misery, Sorcha rolled out of bed to go and see what the Master of Disaster had gone and gotten himself into.

Him sucking on his knuckle and twisting to toss a pan... _a burning pan_, she realized, eyes popping wide, into the sink wasn't what she anticipated.

"Mal?"

Malcolm spun around, face flushing guiltily, and with a streak of what she assumed — or prayed, was more like it — was egg across his forehead.

"I have it all under control!" he assured her right as the smoke alarm started bleating. "Okay... maybe I don't..."

Sorcha shook her head and walked over to drop the lid onto the still burning pan in the sink.

"If you wanted to burn our apartment down," she lightly teased as she handed him a rag for his bleeding knuckle. "Could you not have woken me up, first?"

He frowned as he wrapped the towel around his hand. "I was trying to make you breakfast." The toaster spit out twin pieces of smoldering toast. "Keyword is _trying_."

Sorcha softened, as she always did when it came to her danger prone dumb idiot.

"Let's get this mess cleaned up." She took his uninjured hand between her own. "Then I'll help you make breakfast."

"That ruins the point of me making it for you."

"It's the thought that counts." She placed a soft kiss to his whiskered cheek. "Now, let's get this disaster picked up before Mandy comes home." Her lips twitched. "Not that the words Hurricane Malcolm won't aptly describe what happened."

Mal let out a tired sigh as he rest his forehead against hers.

"Considering I'm a walking disaster."

"Yeah." Sorcha kissed his forehead. "But you're our walking disaster and we love you."

"Don't know why."

_Gonna be a long day_, she realized as she folded her arms around Mal and rubbed his back in slow, soothing circles.

That was okay.

She could weather this storm.

Because the calm that came after it made it worth it.

_He_ was worth it.

Even if her danger prone dope couldn't see it.


	34. Chapter 34

Mal had been in a slump ever since his father's artful manipulation of him led to the destruction of their apartment.

Eating slid to licorice, jolly rancher candies, and an occasional yogurt when she and Mandy could get him to eat one.

Sleeping became next to nonexistent. Even with her curled up next to him, he stared up at the ceiling.

The only thing Mal did with any regularity was study.

Not necessarily a bad thing, but not completely healthy, either.

The only thing that comforted Sorcha was that he didn't intentionally cause himself any other types of physical harm. _Well_, she amended, as she tightened the straps on her boxing gloves, _not ones that require stitches and bandages, anyway_.

Her danger prone dope hurt himself well enough without trying.

Like the bloody nose he got from walking into the front door was proof enough of that.

And the broken toe she still couldn't figure out.

"Ready?" she asked as Mal joined her in the ring. "Or do you want to call sparing off?"

He shook his head.

"No, this was a good idea."

"Yeah, but you've already gotten a bloody nose and we haven't even started sparing yet."

"I'm fine."

Malcolm Bright was never _fine_ but she opted not to say so.

_This time_, she amended silently.

"Okay, but if you get a black-eye or a fat lip, you're explaining it to Gil."

Malcolm rolled his eyes.

"It's my mother you need to worry about."

"That's why I said explain it to Gil."

Mal's lips quirked. The closest he got to a smile in nearly a month.

"That's not a nice thing to do to Gil."

"Survival of the fittest, Mal."

And she had gone enough rounds with Jessica Whitly to know when to send in a ringer.

"Let's begin, okay?"

Sorcha swallowed her reservations and slid her mouth guard into place.

Five minutes later, she was placing an icepack to Mal's chin.

"Don't," he grumbled as he rest his head in her lap. "Don't say I told you so."

"Wasn't gonna." She saw his dubious look. "What? I wasn't."

"Right." He blew out a breath. "Guess I gotta call Gil."

"Uh-huh."

He squinted up at her.

"Why do you sound so cheerful about this?"

"Because I wanna hear you explain how you injured yourself before we even started sparring."

"Tripped going to my corner," he blithely replied. "Bounced my chin off the edge of the mat."

"He'd believe it."

Mal let out another sigh. "Sadly."

Her lips quirked as she couldn't resist pointing out, "You don't got to explain walking into the front door or breaking your toe now."

A frown was Mal's response.


	35. Chapter 35

"Doctor Whitly," he greeted the man in front of him. Cooly, politely. As he had been trained to do. "My name is Ian Corbin. I'm with the FBI."

"The FBI." A low, speculative hum sounded deep in Martin Whitly's throat. "And to what do I owe this pleasure? If," he quipped, an affable smile appearing through his whiskers, "this is a pleasurable visit?"

"I've come to speak with you about your son, Malcolm, actually."

"I didn't think the FBI started recruiting at Malcolm's age." Whitly sat back in his chair and regarded Ian through shrewd eyes. "He's not even twenty."

"Malcolm has a spot waiting at Quantico once he finishes school and is old enough."

A hint of that madness lurking beneath that genial facade appeared in Whitly's eyes for a brief moment. It confirmed what Ian Corbin already knew: that Martin Whitly hid his predatory nature beneath a carefully crafted mask of polish and sophistication.

Challenge his control, his beliefs, and the monster surfaced.

And it was the monster he wanted.

Not the man who considered himself Malcolm's father.

"Well, I'm afraid that's rather unfortunate as my son will be going into the family business."

Ian didn't have to guess as to what family business Whitly meant. It took all his willpower to not reach across that line and pop Whitly in the mouth.

Hitting Martin Whitly, while satisfying, wouldn't help Malcolm. _And he's why I'm here_, he reminded himself as he stared at Whitly.

"I'm afraid you will be disappointed then, Doctor Whitly. Malcolm has no interest in following in your footsteps." Something Malcolm made quite clear in all the conversations they had. "He wants to make something of himself that brings him pride and pleasure."

Whitly's eyes narrowed. "And what do you know about my son and what he wants?"

"I know more about Malcolm than you do."

"I'm his—"

"Father?" Ian took a step forward. Courting the line he had been told not to cross by the orderly sitting just outside Whitly's comfy cell. "If you were his father than you'd see that what you're doing to Malcolm is causing him harm and stop it."

"And what exactly have I been doing that is causing my son this harm?"

Ian dropped the handful of letters Sorcha found in one of Malcolm's desk drawers at Whitly's feet.

"You've been sending him letters containing veiled threats."

"Ah, those are private."

"They also stop."

"Or else what?"

"Or else I will dive into your case file, Doctor Whitly. I know there are more than twenty-three victims. Many more. And I will find them if you don't leave Malcolm alone."

_And I will use them to get you thrown into Rikers._

Those silent words hung in the air between them.

For Ian Corbin they were not a threat.

They were a promise.


	36. Chapter 36

The sun warmed the deck. 

Soothed nerves left raw by the stress of term papers and finals. 

Sorcha lay beside Malcolm, content to do nothing for the next month but sleep and work on getting a tan. 

Or she would if he’d stop fidgeting. 

“Am I going to have to tie you down?” 

Malcolm breathed out a sound that bordered on a laugh. 

“You’d enjoy that too much.” 

“So would you.” She squinted an eye open. “But I figured we’d save the bondage for after my folks went to bed...” 

“You didn’t pack my restraints.” 

“Dad has handcuffs.” 

Interest brightened Malcolm’s face. Deepened the blue of his eyes. “I doubt he’d let you borrow them just to handcuff me to the bed.”

“No, but thinking about me handcuffing you to the bed has got you to stay still.” 

“Could we not discuss my liking you cuffing me to the bed?” His face suffused with color. “Your parents could hear and get upset.”

“I have a perfectly logical argument to use if they hear and object.” 

“Oh?” One eyebrow quirked. “And what is it?”

“They keep you from fidgeting.”

Mal breathed out a small laugh. 

“I’m sorry I’m so restless.” 

“Why don’t you try telling me why you’re so restless?” Not that she didn’t have a pretty good idea. “School?” 

“No.” 

“Being here for the next two weeks while Gil and Jackie are visiting her folks in Florida?” 

“You know I love it here.” 

“Is it the dinner party your mother is forcing you to attend this weekend?” 

“No— well, yes,” Malcolm instantly corrected. “That is part of it.” His fingers brushed her arm. A silent request. One she obliged without having to consider it. “You’ll be there, though, so I won’t be alone.” 

“Then why are you so anxious?” A thought occurred to her. “Does this have to do with your...” She swallowed back her hate before saying, “Father?” 

_The Bastard Who Needed To Die A Horrible Death_.

As she liked to call Martin Whitly. 

“I normally see him when I’m on break.” 

Sorcha bit her tongue to keep from saying the first thing that popped into her mind. Malcolm was still fragile. She’d need to tread lightly to avoid sending him spiraling back down the rabbit hole. 

Her parents house really couldn’t withstand Hurricane Malcolm. 

“We agreed you’d avoid any contact with your father until the semester ends.” 

“I know. It’s just...” 

“You feel guilty.” She squeezed his fingers. “I understand that, Mal. He’s your father. Wait a bit longer to see him, though.” A thousand years from now sounds good, she added silently. “That way you won’t risk missing the start of summer classes.” 

His brow puckered as he considered her suggestion. Sorcha half expected him to refuse, to say he needed to see his father while they were on break, and that he’d ask her father or Sean to take him if she wouldn’t. 

So, it surprised her when Malcolm said, “Okay,” before covering his eyes with his arm.

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, all, and welcome! This is set before my open story, Tremors (for those curious and reading it). The Harvard years have yet to be explored in the show so that is what this collection is attempting to do. Most of the POV of each piece will be written from the perspective of those Malcolm interacts with and not Malcom's POV. That could change, however, if I feel it necessary.
> 
> Please, if you like this collection, kudo/bookmark it!


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